


Between Salt and Sand

by hjbender



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Anthropomorphic Sea Creatures, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies Relationship(s), Loss of Virginity, M/M, Medical Assault, Medical Experimentation, Merman Bucky, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pervasive and Intentional Anachronisms, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Sexual Repression, Shark Rumlow, Slow Burn, Tentacles, Unethical Medicine, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-09-26 16:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9912038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbender/pseuds/hjbender
Summary: Hydra has risen from the abyss, bent on conquering the world's oceans and all who dwell within. A small faction of seafolk reached out to mankind for help, but were never heard from again. Captain Steve Rogers and the crew of the Americus have set sail on a mission to find out why, and to free their new allies from Hydra's merciless tyranny. Everything changes when the crew captures one of Hydra's soldiers, a young Delfin with no name, who ends up stealing the Captain's heart.





	1. Prologue; The Captive

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what makes tales of ships and merfolk so appealing, or why this fandom loves to give Bucky a fish tail, but I found both irresistible. This is my contribution to that beloved genre. I hope you enjoy it. HJB

_Tell him to find me an acre of land,_  
_Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;_  
_Between the salt water and the sea sand,_  
_Then he shall be a true love of mine._  
  
_Scarborough Fair_  
Traditional English ballad

 

**Prologue: The Story Thus Far**

Almost a hundred years have passed since Hydra first rose from the abyss and began their conquest of the three great oceans. One by one, the empires of the Marmeni were corrupted from within by agents of this terrible organization, and brought to submission by its absolute power.

After the fall of Delfia, the last free nation beneath the sea, a contingent of Delfin officials broke the chiefest law governing all seafolk and reached out to the world of man. Humans, who had only just begun to venture into the skies and seas in a period of industrial renaissance, were astounded and elated to learn that they were not alone in the world. An instant alliance was formed between mankind and Delfins. Leaders from all five continents forgot their existing conflicts with each other and united to help their new neighbors.

However, Hydra quickly learned of this unprecedented contact and decided to make an example of the Delfi, slaughtering over three-quarters of them in the ensuing genocide. Only the very young were spared, destined for assimilation as soldiers in Hydra’s growing army. The surviving races, seeing what had happened to those who retaliated, either sided with Hydra or were terrified into oppression.

Disturbed by the sudden silence from their allies and fearing the worst, the kingdoms of men formed a counter-organization known as Sovereign Against International Nautical Tyranny, and awaited further contact from the Delfi.

None came. Fleets of SAINT ships set sail from every port, searching for answers. Thousands of iron plaques carved with messages were tossed into the waves in hopes they would somehow reach the Marmeni and elicit a response.

There has been twenty-five years of silence—until now.

Exasperated by the persistence of the meddling humans, Hydra has begun sending their soldiers out of the deep to attack these goodwill ships, sabotaging them, sinking them, and leaving none alive.

The crew of the _Americus_ , under the command of Captain Steve Rogers, caught one such saboteur and dragged him aboard for questioning.

  


**Chapter 1: The Captive**

“Heads up, Hawk!” Wilson shouted, but his words came too late. Barton, the ship’s gunner, was struck broadside by the powerful gray tail and sent skidding backward across the deck until the mizzenmast halted his journey. He groaned and cradled his aching ribs. Three sailors took his place, armed with pike poles, and jumped into the fray.

Blows rained down upon the Marmen’s back, arms, and tail; the small iron hooks slashed and stabbed his flesh, but he seemed oblivious to the pain, reeling upon his attackers and catching their poles as they descended, snapping them like twigs. Smears of blood painted the deck, appearing black in the dingy, flickering light of the torches.

The creature—no one could say for sure what he was, probably a Carcarin, judging by his ferocity—fought with the strength of ten men, even trapped under heavy fishing net as he was. Whatever grace he might have had in the water was transformed here into savage, frenzied energy—biting, punching, pummeling, thrashing any man who stood against him. He was astoundingly fast, utterly silent. Another assassin, most likely. That would be the fourth in as many months.

 _We must be getting close_ , Wilson thought, and dodged left as the Marmen flung the net off. It landed on two nearby sailors, consequently tangling them. The crew widened its circle around their quarry and watched him pant for breath in this thin new atmosphere. His torso, lean and muscular, was strapped all over with a kind of black leather, and it was from this array of belts that he produced a pair of small white knives, flipping them menacingly. Pale eyes flicked back and forth from behind locks of dark hair as he crouched on the deck, tail folded to propel himself at the next threat.

Dugan, the second mate, limped to Wilson’s side. “What now, sir?” he whispered.

“I’m thinking.”

The helmsman, Morita, stepped up beside Dugan. He had a handkerchief pressed to the bleeding, broken nose he had earlier received from their guest. “I don’t know which end is worse. The man end or the fish end.”

Dugan snorted. “What do you want us to do, Jim? Flip a coin?”

“Sure. Heads, you fight ‘em, tails, I watch.”

“That’s enough,” Wilson snapped, and locked eyes with their enemy. “Captain Rogers’s orders are to keep prisoners alive and on board. And we need to figure out how to do that before we all get our asses ironically kicked by the Legless Wonder here.”

Dugan and Morita exchanged a weary look.

“Now, I’ve got an idea, but we’ll have to—”

The Marmen suddenly sprang up, tackled Dernier, and leaped toward the larboard bulwark. Toward open sea.

“— _jump him_!” Wilson shouted, and every able-bodied man aboard pitched himself onto the would-be escapee. He went down hard, lurching and bucking, but presently the men managed to subdue him. Dugan and Jones sat themselves squarely upon his upper body while Dernier, Wilson, and two other sailors pinned down the tail. The Marmen clawed and scrabbled to get free, but he was no match for the immobilizing weight of six grown men, nor the dozen seamen aiding them.

That didn’t stop him from fighting, though.

“Someone get a rope!” cried Wilson, desperately trying to pin down the energetic flukes. They were flat, he realized. Not vertical, like a Carcarin’s. And he lacked a dorsal fin. “Shit. He’s Delfin.”

“He’s an agent of Hydra, sir,” said Dugan, pointing to the familiar red tattoo on the captive’s shoulder. “He’s our enemy, no matter what race he is.”

“I know that, Dum Dum, but the Delfi are our allies and we can’t just”—his grip failed and the flukes slapped him squarely in the face—“ _where in the hell is that rope!_ ”

Barton, having recovered his wind from earlier, crouched down in front of Wilson with a heavy coil in his hands.

“Sling hitch and a butterfly loop,” Wilson puffed. “Can you do those?”

“No problem,” said Barton, and quickly began to make the requested knots. “How big do you want the hitch?”

“Big enough to fit around this.” Wilson nodded to the writhing tail. “Hurry, we can’t hold this guy for long!”

“And the butterfly?”

“Better make two. Put ‘em eighteen inches down from the hitch. Cut the slack, we’ll use it to tie his hands. Fletcher! Pinkerton! Rig up the block and tackle!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Aw, hell,” Jones muttered. “He ain’t gonna like this.”

“I know, but how else are we going to restrain him?”

“No, sir. I mean the captain.”

“Captain Rogers will understand,” said Wilson, then added under his breath: “I think.”

In a few short minutes the rope was secured to the Delfin’s tail and attached to the block’s hook. The prisoner struggled and writhed the entire time. Not a single audible sound escaped his lips, though his mouth moved as if he were attempting to speak. Only when Wilson counted to three and the men jumped clear did the Delfin finally produce sound: a dry, airy scream as the block was raised, hauling him into the air. It ended abruptly in a fit of coughing.

For a while the prisoner swung and wriggled in a helpless welter; he tried to chew through his bonds and fold himself up high enough to reach the hook, failing in both attempts. At last he surrendered and seemed to accept his fate. The ropes, tightened by his previous efforts, now bit into his flukes, pinching them and making them bleed. The only enemies he faced now were time and his own weight—and the former was entirely predicated upon his endurance of the latter. Pain and ferocious resentment was apparent on his features; this situation was surely as excruciating as it was humbling.

A lull fell over the deck of the _Americus_ , all hands watching the wounded Delfin dangle, wrists bound and upside-down, above the deck like a landed sportfish. It was a disquieting spectacle for a crew sent on a mission of aid and mercy—particularly for Helen Cho, the ship’s surgeon and a self-professed lover of all things sea-born. She emerged from the forecastle and approached the first mate, having witnessed all that had occurred.

“He can’t stay like that for long,” she told Wilson softly. “We have no idea how our atmosphere might be affecting his body. It could be poisoning him.”

“We’ll take him down as soon as Captain Rogers returns.”

“What if he dies before then, Sam?”

“He won’t. I’ll set up a watch. If he blacks out, we’ll let him down.”

“He’s bleeding—look at those punctures and lacerations. Some of them are serious. You should let me treat him.”

“He’ll kill you if you get within arm’s reach of him, Doc. You’re better to wait until he gets a little more respectful.”

“The blood is rushing to his head right now,” she persisted. “His brain could hemorrhage and then he won’t be able to tell you anythi—”

Wilson turned and arrested her with a sharp look. “He stays as he is until the captain returns or he passes out. He will not be treated or coddled or keel-hauled unless by Captain’s orders. That is my decision. You don’t have to like it, but as long as I am acting commander of this vessel, you will obey it.”

Cho pinched her lips into a hard line and nodded her acknowledgement. “Alright. I’ll be belowdecks if you need me, sir,” she said flatly. “Please alert me when he dies, I’d love to be the first person in the world to do a postmortem on a Marmen.”

She left Wilson standing alone, massaging his forehead tiredly. What he had been unable to say was that he shared all of Cho’s concerns, though there was little he could do about them. This was the only way to get the situation under control. Hopefully it wouldn’t damage relations between humans and the Delfi, if any more of them were to be found.

“Mr Morita, Mr Jones. Take first watch,” said Wilson, sparing one last glimpse at the grim sight of the hanging Hydra operative. “If anything—and I do mean _anything_ —happens, if he falls asleep, if he starts puking blood, if he busts out singin _Roll, Me Hearties_ , you call for me, aye?”

“Aye, sir,” they said.

“And make sure Fletcher keeps those lanterns lit. We don’t want our captain getting lost out there.”

* * *

The longboat carrying Captain Steve Rogers and the ship’s navigator, Montgomery, returned to the _Americus_ in the thin hours just before dawn. The eastern sky was fading to a pale blue where it met the sea, glassy and calm, when they climbed aboard. First mate Wilson greeted them and gave them a hand up.

“Welcome back, sirs,” he said. “Any luck?”

Captain Rogers sighed, his broad shoulders slumping slightly. Montgomery looked similarly dejected.

“None,” said Rogers. “We followed the algae trail but it faded about four miles nor-nor-east. We waited for contact, but no luck. Either we’ve mistaken a natural phenomenon for a message or we’re not finding the trails in time. If only there was a way we could see the algae in daylight . . .” He trailed off and looked aftward, over Wilson’s shoulder. “What is _that_?”

“A member of Hydra’s welcoming committee,” he explained, leading the captain amidships. “We caught him after he dismantled the rudder and carved fourteen holes in the stern. Mr Lang and his men have been busy with repairs all ni—”

“Why is he tied up like that?”

“No other way, sir. He was beating the hell out of us.”

A few members of the crew paused what they were doing and watched Captain Rogers approach the still-hanging Delfin, who had been motionless now for hours. He still breathed, though his neck and face were flushed with blood and he hadn’t opened his eyes in a while. Apparently he was sleeping. Rogers stepped close and touched the red mark of Hydra—a skull sitting on a sextet of tentacles—confirming what he already knew to be true. He gazed up at the Delfin’s once-magnificent tail, now bloodied and marred by wounds. “What a shame.”

At that moment the prisoner stirred and opened his eyes, then immediately recoiled at the man in front of him. Rogers stepped back, out of harm’s way, and watched the Delfin thrash in frantic agitation. The outburst didn’t last long; he soon overexerted himself and went limp, gasping for breath as he oscillated in the aftermath of his struggling. He looked so exhausted and frightened he could almost be pitied.

“Did he tell you anything?” Rogers asked Wilson.

“Nothing, sir. He’s hardly made a sound since we caught him.”

“Really.” He narrowed his eyes at the thick, scaly-looking collar around the prisoner’s neck. “I guess that leaves me no choice.”

A look of alarm crossed Wilson’s face as he watched his captain unsheathe his cutlass and slice the rope. The Delfin toppled to the deck with a mighty thud, grimaced, and tested his muscles with slow, stiff motions. His hair had completely dried and now appeared to be brown instead of black.

Captain Rogers sheathed his blade and kneeled down, grasped the end of the rope, and rose with a grave expression. He strode forward, his boots thumping on the deck, dragging the Delfin behind him. Too weak to resist, the prisoner could only twist and roll, leaving a trail of bright crimson streaks as scabs were torn from his wounds and he bled afresh. He reached out with bound arms and dug his fingernails into the planks, but this did nothing to slow his progress.

The crew stared, mouths ajar and eyes wide.

Wilson finally found his voice again: “Captain,” he said loudly, and Rogers halted, “the brig is aft.” He numbly pointed toward the stern.

“I know. I’m going to the galley.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but Wilson asked anyway. “Why, sir?”

Even the Delfin seemed to be awaiting his next words, head raised and alert. Rogers regarded his first mate soberly. “Because that’s where we keep the knives.”

For a few seconds the only sound to be heard was the faint lapping of the waves against the hull. Then Rogers resumed his march, his terrified captive clambering and clawing all the way. They disappeared down the ladder and into the passageway, the Delfin thumping hard on each step. There was the sound of the galley door being wrenched open, followed by a brief, violent struggle, then the hard slam of wood as the door was shut.

Jim Morita reached up and solemnly removed his hat.

“God have mercy,” Dugan murmured.

Wilson crossed his arms and covered his mouth with one hand. He knew precisely what the Captain was doing: protecting his crew from liability. If word of this incident ever arose, if anyone ever learned that the esteemed captain of the _Americus_ had deliberately tortured information out of one of Hydra’s agents, someone was going to get hanged, and that someone was going to be Steve Rogers.

There was no helping it; it was simply the man’s nature. He was modest, devoted, self-sacrificing, and loyal as an old dog. If someone had to suffer, Steve Rogers volunteered. If someone had to risk his life, Steve Rogers stepped forward. If Admiral Fury blessed out the _Americus_ for being reckless, Steve Rogers took full responsibility. It was for this reason his crew loved him and would die for him—because they knew he would do the same.

. . . and also because they understood if there was unpleasant work to be done, Steve Rogers would let no one’s hands be bloodied, save his own. _That’s_ my _duty_ , he once said. _As your captain and commander, this burden I bear alone._

That promise seemed to echo in the ears of each of his men standing there in the early dawn, and they respected and feared him as never before.

Wilson didn’t stop them from gathering around the passageway, straining to hear what was going on within. In fact, he didn’t want anything to do with this. It was going to be brutal and bloody and horrible, and he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life waking up in the middle of the night with the sounds of this particular interrogation ringing through his mind.

So he walked down to the quarterdeck, leaned against the aft bulwark, and let the knocking of Lang’s hammer drown out his thoughts.


	2. "Water."

Captain Rogers turned from the door and looked down at the Delfin, who stared back at him with a face both defiant and afraid. He had seen such faces before: it was the expression of a man who knew he was going to die, an amalgamation of pride and fear and anger, melted together in the crucible of determination. An admirable characteristic elsewhere, but in this case simply depressing.  
  
He slowly crouched down, and the Delfin scooted back a few inches. “My name is Steve,” he said quietly, “and I want to help you.”  
  
The Delfin seemed to consider this for a moment, eyes darting back and forth rapidly. Then he lashed out with his tail, intending to strike the man in the face, but his flukes were unexpectedly seized in a strong, unyielding fist. The Delfin inhaled sharply, and suddenly the man was on top of him, drawing his dagger. The sleek gray fin beat and banged upon the floor as the Delfin summoned the last of his strength to fight. Seething in desperation, he threw his elbows and fists into the solid chest above him, but was powerless to stop the descending blade.  
  
Cold steel slipped between his wrists, and then his bonds fell away. He went motionless and stared up at the man hovering over him.  
  
Steve smiled kindly and moved down, cutting the ropes from his bloodied tail and tossing them away. “There, that’s better. Now”—he returned his dagger to its sheath—“if you want me to remove that Sufogru so you can talk again, I’ll be happy to assist. But you have to indulge me in a little charade first.”  
  
The Delfin placed his hand over the scaly collar he wore, stunned beyond words even if he were capable of speaking.  
  
“All I ask is that you stay quiet,” said Steve, “and don’t be afraid. This is only for show. Alright?”  
  
Confused and more than a little distrustful, the Delfin gave a slow, hesitant nod.  
  
“Good.” The captain rose to his feet and declared loudly, “I know you can understand me, so I’m going to be blunt. Who’s behind the trail of algae? Is it Hydra?”  
  
In the following pause, he plucked a large copper pan from one of the rafters and hurled it against the far wall. It collided with an array of ladles, spoons, spatulas and other tools, making a frightful racket. The Delfin cringed and covered his head with his arms.  
  
“Look at me when I’m talking, you scum!” Steve bellowed at nobody in particular, turning around and kicking an empty keg. It flew across the galley and crashed into the big iron stove, splintering to bits. He winced. “Oops. Hope we don’t need that later.”  
  
The Delfin peeked through his arms with eyes that delivered a universal message: _Is this man insane?_  
  
“I have no patience,” Steve continued, “for slimy little seaworms who sneak around and sabotage my ship in the dead of night. If you’re looking for a fight, why not do it face to face!” He swept his arm across a line of pots. Some of them came off their hooks and crashed to the floor, lids rolling haphazardly. “Or is that something reserved only for _men_!” Splinter. Smash. Bang.  
  
In this fashion he proceeded to bawl and bray and stamp about, reciting a litany of threats and accusations. All the while the Delfin cowered on the floor and folded himself into a steadily tightening ball.  
  
When he deemed the farce had gone on long enough, the captain took up a massive rolling pin and slapped it against his open palm. “This is your last chance,” he stated. “Answer me or I bash your brains out. _Where are the rest of the Delfi_?” He looked around for something to approximate his barbaric intentions, and spied a salted ham leg swinging in its netting. That would work. Mr Lee was going to squawk for days, but the sacrifice was for a good cause.  
  
As Steve drew his arm back for the blow, he glanced over at the prisoner. Good? Probably not. But he was willing to give him a chance.  
  
The rolling pin thudded into the meat once. Twice. Again. The netting ripped. Chunks of pork were torn away, exposing white bone. The crack of the pin against it sounded legitimately gruesome. He continued to trounce the ham until it was quite pulverized, then he dropped his weapon onto a sideboard.  
  
“What a waste,” he said. “Well, crabs need to eat, too. At least it won’t be a total loss.” Whether he was speaking of the ham or of the Delfin he’d just pretended to beat to death, no one may ever know.  
  
Steve walked across the galley to where the Delfin lay, and kneeled down beside him. “Hey,” he whispered, gently touching the folded arms, “it’s alright. It’s over.”  
  
The Delfin recoiled a little at the contact, but lowered his arms. He looked up at Captain Rogers with sea-green eyes and a perplexed face.  
  
“Don’t worry, I’m gonna get you outta here. But I need, um.” Steve deliberated with himself for a second, then simply opened his arms in invitation. “I’ll need to carry you. I know you’ve got no reason to trust me, but, really and truly, if I was gonna kill you, don’t you think I’d have done it by now?”  
  
Not convincing enough, apparently—the Delfin slid back a little farther with an accusing glare.  
  
“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” Steve insisted. “I’m, look, I don’t care whose side you’re on, I’m going to treat your wounds and let you go because it’s the decent thing to do. The Delfi have suffered enough. I couldn’t just . . . You have to trust me. Please.”  
  
The Delfin seemed to relax a little, but he frowned skeptically and bit his bottom lip. Steve leaned forward and gingerly placed his arms around him. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated softly, and was pleased when he felt an arm slide around his waist and clutch his tailcoat. He slipped his hand beneath the sturdy gray tail and stood, grunting a little at the exertion. The two wobbled unsteadily for a moment and the Delfin reached up and grasped Steve’s shoulder, which seemed to correct their balance.  
  
“Well,” said Steve as their eyes met, “that wasn’t so bad.” He grinned and gave the Delfin a little toss to improve his hold, then strode toward one of the far walls.  
  
When the _Americus_ was being built in the great shipyards of York, a network of concealed passages was installed within its bulkheads. It was an expensive and time-consuming task, but very practical in terms of both repair and defense—for if a SAINT ship was ever overtaken by pirates or encountered a similar calamity at sea, the crew would be able to navigate to safety using these narrow stairwells. Another benefit was the added thickness of the hull, which made the ship practically impervious, at least from the sides. The bottom was the only vulnerable part, which made Captain Rogers wonder if the Delfin had known exactly where to attack the ship. Perhaps Hydra, God forbid, had discovered this weakness from attacking other SAINT ships before theirs.  
  
Steve carefully maneuvered up the dark ladder, trying not to smother the Delfin he cradled in his arms. It was difficult, considering the claustrophobic quarters and the larger-than-average size of both their bodies. Shoulders, heads and other extremities regularly collided with the woodwork. In addition to being cramped and awkward, it also terribly intimate, being so close in the dark with this . . . person, who smelled of brine and blood and something faintly sweet, like the cool interior of a fresh clam. Steve could hear the steady, nervous breaths, feel their humidity on his neck. The soft brush of long hair against his cheek, the fingers holding his coat, the hand on his shoulder. The strong muscles of that amazing tail drawing close to his side. Yes, it was intimate in a way Steve Rogers could never have imagined, and he was surprised at how giddy it made him feel.  
  
_It’s just because he’s Delfin_ , he told himself as he continued to climb. _Because he might be able to tell us what happened to the others, and I might be the first human being to finally learn the truth. It’s momentous—historic. This is the first real contact anyone’s had with these people in over twenty-five years. That’s what’s so incredible and exciting, not . . . not the way he smells._  
  
They passed two junctions before finally arriving at their destination. Steve slid open a small door, much like the one they had entered by way of the galley, and stepped into his cluttered, humbly-furnished cabin. The rose-gold light of dawn shone through the latticework windows, casting shadows of diamonds and rhombuses where it fell. Steve thumped over to his bed and gently let down the Delfin, who seemed eager to break contact with the human; he timidly tucked his arms against his body and studied his new surroundings.  
  
Steve went to the window and drew the curtains, darkening the room. He shrugged off his coat, hung it on a peg, and lit a hurricane lamp. He then removed his belt—upon which hung his pistol and cutlass—and rolled up his sleeves. The Delfin watched his every move with apparent unease.  
  
From a small desk covered with papers, scrolls, and maps, Steve located his bow compass. He loosened the screw so that the legs could pivot freely, rather like a pair of forceps, and returned to the lamp. He delicately removed glass globe, revealing the open flame. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Delfin’s mouth fall slightly open. Of course, fire. It must be mesmerizing to someone from the cold blue bowels of the sea.  
  
He placed the compass directly onto the flame, and regarded his guest seriously. “You’re going to have to hold very still. I don’t wanna burn you.”  
  
The Delfin, who appeared to have gone straight from concern to consternation, gave a small nod.  
  
“It’s a nasty thing,” said Steve, “those Sufogru. I didn’t know anything about them until we came across the _Black Panther_ a fortnight ago. That’s Prince T’challa’s ship. He told me he and his crew found a half-dead Tsipar, one of the eel people. He’d washed ashore on an island they were anchored off of, and they brought him aboard. He was a Hydra agent like y—like so many others. They did everything they could for him, but the sharks or something had gotten to him first and their surgeon couldn’t save him. They did manage to get the Sufogru off of him, and the Tsipar was able to tell them what those creatures were, how they were created by Hydra to keep their soldiers from speaking to the enemy. He died shortly after.” Steve looked over at the Delfin. “Did you know him, you think?”  
  
The Delfin shook his head.  
  
When the legs of compass were glowing red, Steve lifted the instrument from the flame and approached the bed. “I don’t know how long this is going to take,” he said, sitting down on the edge, “but be ready to catch it if it doesn’t die immediately. Can you, uh. Your hair.”  
  
With a flash of understanding, the Delfin reached up and gathered his hair behind his head. He lifted his chin and exposed his neck.  
  
Steve was deeply moved by the show of trust. “Thanks. Wouldn’t want your hair to get burned. It’s nice.” He hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud; his very soul cringed with embarrassment. _The Sufogru, man. Stay focused now._  
  
Slowly he reached out with the compass and pinched the hard, pebbly collar at its thickest part. There came a hiss and a curl of smoke where the hot metal touched. The Delfin’s eyebrows drew together in fear.  
  
“I know it’s hot,” said the captain. “You’re doing fine. Just hold still.”  
  
The Delfin closed his eyes and gulped. The collar moved, appearing to loosen. Steve clamped down on the compass harder, pinching the superheated legs tighter, and the Sufogru’s outer hide began to sizzle. He glanced at its victim, grimacing in pain.  
  
“Just stay with me, buddy, I think it’s almost ov—”  
  
The creature jerked and sprang open like a broken watch. Steve could see the long spines that had been embedded in the Delfin’s throat slowly retract, leaving behind tiny red holes. The clasp formed by each of its ends temporarily came undone, and he wrenched it off the Delfin’s neck and threw it to the floor.  
  
It writhed on the planks like a mortally-wounded leech. And that’s what it was, really: a huge, leathery leech with an underbelly of needles. An insidious parasite that could only be detached with fire, just as Prince T’challa had said. The thing shuddered and shivered on the cabin floor, releasing a hideous odor from its burnt flesh. Captain Rogers sprang up, pulled his dagger from the holster on his hip, and stabbed the creature as neatly as an entomologist would pin a butterfly. It gave one last grotesque twitch before dying.  
  
Steve left his blade embedded in the floor, stood, and turned to the Delfin. He was massaging his throat where the Sufogru had been.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
The Delfin licked his lips and said in a soft, dry whisper: “Water.”  
  
Water. Of course water. Water is life, Delfins are alive, ergo they need water. That made perfect sense. Steve spun around and began to tear his cabin apart in search of water. Water, water. Whole horizons of it out there in every direction, the larger part of the world simply _covered_ in the stuff, and all he needed was a single—  
  
Wait. He kept a small cask of water beside his bed. How could he have forgotten? He drank a cup every morning.  
  
It wasn’t just rational thought that Captain Rogers was having trouble conjuring at that particular moment; in his haste to reach his personal drinking supply, he tripped over his desk stool, squashed one end of the dead Sufogru under his boot, and barked his shin on the foot of the bed.  
  
The Delfin stared at him as if he’d gone mad. _Maybe I have_ , thought Steve, and gave his guest a weak smile. He finally managed to make his way to the far side of the bed and locate the cask. He took the copper cup from its hook and poured a full measure. He presented it to the Delfin, who stared at it blankly.  
  
It then dawned on Steve that the Delfi would have no concept of what drinking was or how to do it—no more than a fish knew how to ride a velocipede.  
  
He rose from his crouch and sat on the mattress, keeping a polite distance between himself and his guest. “Like this,” he said gently, bringing the cup to his lips and taking a sip. “Swallow it, just like food.”  
  
He gave the cup to the Delfin, who held it with both hands like a child. He brought it to his lips and tilted it back as he’d seen the human do. Water streamed from the corners of his mouth at first, but he corrected the angle and succeeded in taking his first swallow. A few seconds later the cup was empty.  
  
“More?”  
  
A nod.  
  
Steve refilled the cup and passed it to the Delfin, who drained it quickly and handed it back. Between the fourth and fifth helping, he finally spoke:  
  
“It’s sweet.” His voice was soft and shy—the utter inverse of his appearance. “Like the . . . little broken water that falls on our roof.”  
  
Steve tried hard not to grin. “We call it freshwater. It’s what we humans need to survive.”  
  
The Delfin gazed into the cup. “Does it all come from the air?”  
  
It took the captain a moment to translate the awkward vocabulary. “Some freshwater comes from the air, yes,” he said slowly. “We call it rain. Some freshwater comes from the ground; we call those springs. And some freshwater comes from the tops of mountains, from the ice and snow.”  
  
The Delfin absorbed this information, chewing on his bottom lip meditatively.  
  
“Do you have a name?” asked Steve.  
  
“Soldier.”  
  
“That’s it? Nothing else?”  
  
The Delfin shook his head. “Hydra doesn’t use names. If I ever had one, I forgot it a long time ago.” He took another drink, licking his lips afterward.  
  
Steve drew a long breath. “There’s a lot I want to talk to you about,” he said, rising. “But first we need to do something about those wounds.”  
  
“Oh.” The Delfin, appearing to have forgotten his numerous injuries, looked down at his body. “I’ll be fine.”  
  
“I’m gonna grab something from the infirmary,” said Steve, completely ignoring that last sentence and heading to the bulwark passage. “I’ll be right back. You just wait here and be quiet.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because you’re a Hydra agent and you’re in my bed and I don’t think I’m ready to explain that to my crew just yet.”  
  
“No, I mean”—the Delfin blinked rapidly, as if he were having trouble comprehending—“why are you doing this? Why didn’t you kill me?”  
  
Steve’s heart softened at the childlike questions. “We’ll talk more when I get back.”


	3. Starbuck

Steve was tucking a bottle of creosote oil into his waistcoat when he heard the door behind him bang open. He turned to behold the furious, red-rimmed eyes of Helen Cho. She crossed the infirmary in three quick strides and slapped Captain Rogers squarely on his cheek. The impact didn’t even move his head.  
  
“How _could_ you?” she demanded, shaking with rage. “A _Delfin_ , beaten to death on _this_ ship! What kind of a sick monster _are_ you!”  
  
“So you heard,” said Steve quietly.  
  
“Clint told me. If I’d been there myself, I might have committed an act of mutiny.”  
  
Steve sighed and lowered his head. “He belonged to Hydra. He refused to tell me anything. I did what I had to do.”  
  
Silence. When he looked up, a pair of tears was rolling slowly down Cho’s fair cheeks.  
  
“You know the rules, Helen,” he said in a gentle, reasonable voice. “We have no place to keep a prisoner like that, and I couldn’t just let him go.” _Although_ , he thought, _that’s exactly what I’m planning to do. But the less you know, the safer you’ll be_. “This was the only way.”  
  
Cho put a hand over her eyes and sniffed. “Did you at least save the body?” she finally croaked. “So I can . . .”  
  
“I put the remains down the galley chute. They’re at the bottom of the sea.”  
  
She bit her lip and finally forced herself to look at her captain. “I thought you were different,” she said, her normally lovely features contorted in disappointment. “That’s why I asked to be assigned to the _Americus_. You weren’t like other captains. You were kind and genuine and, and you had a sense of humor. You treated your crew with respect, no matter their rank. You’re what every person looks for in a leader, the type of captain that sailors dream of serving under. And every day since we left port two years ago, you’ve proven that difference. But now . . .” She shook her head and looked askance. “This is so unlike you. I thought I knew you, Steven, but I don’t. I don’t know anything.”  
  
Steve dropped his gaze to the floor let his silence convict him—he was innocent, of course, but there was no better way to manage this quandary; he must either accept the blow to his character or let the rest of his crew be condemned with him. And that was something he was simply unwilling to do.  
  
“I apologize for hitting you,” said Cho. “I’ll put myself on disciplinary probation under Lieutenant Wilson if it—”  
  
“That’s alright, Helen.”  
  
“No, it isn’t. I assaulted a commanding officer. I deserve reprimand.”  
  
This was why Steve hated lying—you just ended up digging an increasingly deeper hole for yourself, and sometimes that hole got so big that others fell into it, too. “We’ll discuss your punishment later,” he said, stepping past her. “In the meantime, carry on duties as usual.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“And Helen?”  
  
She turned.  
  
Steve stood in the doorway, looking genuinely remorseful. “Try not to think too badly of me. One day this will all make sense, I promise.”  
  
Cho crossed her arms over her waist, nodded her acknowledgement, and listened to her captain’s footsteps fade down the passageway. 

* * *

When Steve returned to his cabin, a strange sight awaited him.  
  
Rays from the early morning sun glowed around the edges of the thick curtains, permitting enough light to illuminate what would otherwise be a totally dark room. The Delfin had removed his strappy black vest and was licking a deep cut on his bicep; his head snapped up when he heard the door opening—the everyday door through which people normally passed, not the hidden one in the bulkhead—and seemed relieved when he saw it was the captain.  
  
After taking in the unusual scene before him, Steve quickly shut the door behind himself. “Is that how all Marmeni treat their wounds?” he asked.  
  
“I don’t know. Hydra takes care of our injuries.”  
  
Steve frowned and walked to the bed. “They don’t teach you to take care of yourself?” he asked, sitting down. “What if you’re too injured to make it back to them?”  
  
“Then the seekers will come and find me.”  
  
“Seekers, huh? Suppose you get lost or taken prisoner. Then what happens?”  
  
The Delfin blinked. “I don’t know. I . . . I’m trained to obey. If I obey, there’s no need to worry about anything else. That’s one of our truisms.”  
  
Steve reflected on this a moment, then took the bottle of oil from his waistcoat. The Delfin watched with interest as he removed the cork and poured a little onto his fingertips. “May I?”  
  
After a bewildered expression, the Delfin nodded. It seemed he wasn’t accustomed to being touched of his own consent, which rang a discordant note deep in Steve’s being. He reached out and applied the thick, slightly-resinous liquid to the wound that the Delfin had been licking. “It may tingle a little at first,” he said, “but it’ll help numb the pain.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“It’s an antiseptic,” said Steve, then reiterated: “It cleans the wound and keeps it from getting infected. You’re pretty banged up, so this might take a while. Here, help me.” He handed the bottle to the Delfin. “You only need a little. You don’t have to rub it in, just wipe it on and leave it.”  
  
The Delfin did as he was told, and began applying the salve to the wounds on his front while Steve moved behind him and tended the ones on his back. There was a lovely gradient to the Delfin’s skin; the same livid shade of his tail was also present on his back, fading to a human-like beige on his chest and belly. The backs of his arms and hands bore a similar shift of hue. The only thing that was out of place, and far uglier than any of the gashes or punctures that Steve treated, was Hydra’s terrible brand on the Delfin’s left shoulder. It stood out like a scream in the night, violent red against cool gray-blue.  
  
“I got blood in your nest,” said the Delfin suddenly, as if he’d been mulling over it for some time. His flukes patted the bed restlessly, like someone wringing their hands.  
  
Steve looked down at the stains on his sheets and smiled. “Don’t worry. I can wash ‘em.”  
  
“Washum?”  
  
“Wash. It’s how we clean things,” he said. “We use soap and water—soap makes suds, and it, uh . . . y’know, I’ve never had to explain this before. I’m probably not doing a very good job.”  
  
“I think you are.” The Delfin looked over his shoulder with large, sea-colored eyes. He had long lashes, Steve noticed. And red lips that curved gently, sadly downward. He might have been handsome from a distance, but this close he was undeniably beautiful.  
  
Steve blinked, bringing himself out of his trance. “You”—his voice cracked—“you speak the common tongue pretty well. How did you learn?”  
  
“Hydra knows many languages. They taught me.”  
  
“Tell me about them,” said Steve softly. “What’s it like living under their rule?”  
  
“What’s it like?” The Delfin licked his lips and thought a moment. “Hydra, they take care of us. They have lots of food so no one has to hunt or be hungry anymore. They have _medisi_ to keep us from getting sick, and our leaders keep us safe.”  
  
“Safe from what?” Steve muttered, swiping his thumb across a deep cut on the Delfin’s shoulder blade. “Sea monsters?”  
  
“From the outside. Predators. And you.”  
  
“Me?”  
  
“Humans,” the Delfin corrected. “They’re the worst of all, that’s what Hydra says. That’s what killed all the Delfi.”  
  
Steve’s heart froze in his chest.  
  
“They broke the rules and contacted humans,” he went on, “and then they all got sick and died. Hydra tried to save them, but they could only help the really young ones. I was one of them. They gave us a quill that made us immune to your disease, so now we’re the ones who fight to keep the rest of the Marmeni safe.” The Delfin’s tone fell to a murmur. “There aren’t many of us left. Hydra is trying to save our race, but they don’t think it can be done.”  
  
When Steve finally found his voice, it was shaking. “That’s quite a story. Very different from the one I was told.”  
  
“Different? How?”  
  
“Tell me, did Hydra ever explain why Delfins wanted to contact humans in the first place?”  
  
There was a long pause. “N-no,” the Delfin confessed. “I’m sure they had a—”  
  
“I’ll tell you why. Because Hydra had toppled the kingdom of Delfia and was bent on taking over everything under the sea. They were turning the Marmeni into subjects and taking away their freedom, destroying their way of life. This came directly from the mouths of the Delfi.”  
  
“That can’t be true.” The Delfin pulled away and awkwardly repositioned himself on the bed so that he could look Steve eye-to-eye. “Hydra would never . . . Hydra takes care of us. They made things better for everyone. There used to be wars between the Marmeni, and famine and poverty and sickness. Those don’t exist anymore.”  
  
“And neither does your race,” said Steve coldly, and the pugnacious scowl disappeared from the Delfin’s face. “You know what I think? I think Hydra has been lying to you your whole life, my friend. The Delfi came to us twenty-five years ago to ask for our help, and as punishment, Hydra slaughtered them all. Well, almost all.”  
  
The Delfin began to shake his head. “No. No, you’re wrong, you’re—”  
  
“They made up some story about a disease that killed your people, and since anyone old enough to know the truth is now dead, no one can tell you otherwise. And those that can, like the Tsipari or Carcari, are too afraid. Fear is an effective way to silence people. And that’s what Hydra did.”  
  
The Delfin clutched the bottle of oil in his shaking hands. When he looked up at the captain, his face was positively terrified. “If you’re right,” he said in a small voice, “if what you said is true, what . . . what do I do?”  
  
“That’s something you’re going to have to decide on your own,” said Steve solemnly, reaching out and gently prying the bottle from the Delfin’s hands. “You can either go back to Hydra, to the people that nearly exterminated your race, and never have to think for yourself or worry or be afraid ever again. Or you can leave Hydra and learn to survive on your own. In other words, you can spend the rest of your life safe, or you can spend the rest of your life free. It’s up to you.”  
  
The Delfin sucked on his bottom lip worriedly. “I wanna be free,” he said at length. “But I wanna be safe, too.”  
  
“Which is more important to you?”  
  
“I don’t know. I’ve never . . . I don’t know!”  
  
Instinct was telling Steve to reach out and embrace this distraught person, but that might do more harm than good. A hug in the human world might mean something completely different in the Marmeni’s world. So he sat and quietly studied his companion, analyzing his lost, confused expression and anxious demeanor, trying to imagine what might be going through his mind. A small smile came to his lips and he said, “You know who you remind me of? Starbuck.”  
  
“Who’s that?” asked the Delfin, appearing as if he were only half-listening. He certainly had a lot to be thinking about right now, Steve thought.  
  
“He’s a character from an ancient story,” said Steve, “a crewman on a ship called the _Pequod_ , which hunted the great leviathans. They set out on a journey to kill one such leviathan, a white monster that had taken the captain’s leg. The captain was obsessed, and his hatred for the leviathan infected the rest of his men. Starbuck was the only soul among them who remained sane when the captain and crew descended into madness. He was a sensible man, Starbuck. Strong, good at his job. The best first mate a captain could ask for.”  
  
Something must have sparked the Delfin’s interest; he raised his eyes to Steve’s. “What happened to him? Did he leave the mad people?”  
  
“He wanted to, probably could have, but he was too loyal to his captain, and too afraid to leave. So when the captain’s obsession became too great and the ship finally sank, Starbuck went down with them.”  
  
The Delfin furrowed his brow. “That’s not fair.”  
  
Steve had to force himself to keep a straight face—this was going exactly where he’d hoped it would. “Why?”  
  
“Starbuck should have lived,” said the Delfin pointedly. “He wasn’t mad. He was good. The captain was wrong. Why did he have to die with the other mad people?”  
  
“That’s a good question. Maybe you’ll find the answer yourself someday, Starbuck.”  
  
The Delfin blinked his long lashes and looked about, as if expecting to find someone else in the room.  
  
“Yes, I meant you.”  
  
“But you said ‘Starbuck’.”  
  
“It’s a good name.” Steve finally allowed himself to grin. “And it’s yours, if you want it.”  
  
“A name?”  
  
“You said you never had one. I’d like to be able to call you something other than ‘my friend’.”  
  
A light seemed to sparkle behind those sea-green eyes. “Starbuck,” he murmured, trying it out. “My name is Starbuck.” He nodded to himself and looked up at Steve. “I’m Starbuck. And you’re Captain Rogers.”  
  
“Please, call me Steve.”  
  
“Steve.” Starbuck bit his lower lip and ducked his head as if he were suddenly suffering an attack of bashfulness. It was quite possibly the most endearing thing that Steve Rogers had ever seen.  
  
_I hope he makes it_ , he thought suddenly, his heart overflowing with compassion. _I hope he finds a way. I hope he lives a long, happy life far away from Hydra’s ugly claws. I hope I can see him again, when he’s whole and healed. I’d like to see him years from now, with silver in his hair and good memories etched in lines on his face. Lines from laughing, smiling, singing . . ._  
  
The sentimental grin on Steve’s lips faded when he realized that he probably wouldn’t see Starbuck again after today; that the ocean was a far wider place than the land, and it was easy to forget all about some human he met aboard a ship. Well, it had been a lovely fantasy.  
  
“I’m tired,” said Starbuck suddenly, and it was evident in his appearance: his lids hung heavy over his eyes and his posture was slumped. The last several hours had certainly been taxing for him, physically and emotionally.  
  
“Then rest,” said Steve, standing up. “No one enters the captain’s cabin without his permission, so you’ll be safe here.”  
  
Starbuck nodded drowsily and laid himself down on the bed, appearing to be familiar with such sleeping quarters. Steve wondered what sort of beds—or nests—Hydra provided for their soldiers, if they were soft, comfortable things or hard and functional, if they inspired pleasant dreams or cultivated nightmares.  
  
_So many questions_ , Steve thought, gazing down at the Delfin’s closed eyes, his gently rising and falling chest. _So much to learn about these people, and so little time._  
  
Though he had spent the entire night out in a longboat, looking for signs of glowing algae in a black sea, Steve felt no fatigue whatsoever. Something was invigorating him, refreshing him. Perhaps it was Starbuck. Perhaps it was his own excitement at finally making contact with a Delfin. Steve didn’t know.  
  
He probably could have interviewed his guest until sunset and still been too energized to sleep that night, but Starbuck would need to recover some of his strength before Steve felt confident about releasing him. He would have to wait until night, do it under the cover of darkness. Quietly slip him back into the sea, then spend the rest of his life trying not to forget his face.  
  
Or maybe . . .  
  
Steve went to his desk and gently eased open the drawer, lifting out a large pad of paper and the canvas roll-up that held his charcoal pencils. He sat down on the stool and turned to a blank page. The light wasn’t great in here, not with the curtains drawn as they were, but he could approximate a more suitable contrast in his head. He’d worked in less favorable settings than this, after all.  
  
He unrolled his charcoals, selected his sketching pencil, and studied his subject. A fleeting despondency came upon Steve then, for he knew that whatever he drew on this paper would never come close to the beauty and detail of the real thing.  
  
But it was better than nothing.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Steve lowered his pencil and began to draw.


	4. All We Can Do

The ship’s bell rang eight times at midday. The hourglass was turned in its swivel and a new watch began. The typical activities of maintaining a ship were somewhat altered today, being that the _Americus_ was at anchor, but the crew busied themselves with swabbing the deck, splicing rope, cleaning the cannons, repairing sails, and other small but necessary tasks. There was no singing or joke-swapping today; the men were somber, going about their duties with long faces and few words.

When Captain Rogers emerged on deck, the crew became even more quiet, lowering their heads and keeping their eyes down. Sam Wilson appeared and gave a report on their current situation.

“She’s holding steady,” he said, walking slowly alongside Steve. “There’s almost a foot of water in the hold, but I’ve got Dugan overseeing the pumps. She’ll be dry in a few hours. Lang said the rudder is nearly fixed and we ought to be ready to weigh anchor by this evening. You wanna continue our course?”

“No, Sam,” said Steve, looking out across the water. “I think we’ve spent enough time chasing rabbit trails. We’ll head south and make for the isles of Austerness. It’s been six months since the crew set foot on land, and Gabe tells me we’re getting low on dry goods. We’ll drop anchor at Purawai for a few days and resupply. We could all use a little furlough, I think.”

“Aye, sir. I’ll inform Mr Morita of the new course.”

Sam strode aft and left Steve by himself, though he wasn’t completely alone; nearby, Clint Barton was sitting at the starboard gangway with a long bamboo fishing pole. His legs hung over the deck of the ship, his trousers rolled to his knees. A bucket sat beside him, containing the fruits of his labor—forbidden fruits, apparently, for the bucket was empty.

Steve walked over and leaned against the handrail. “No luck?” he asked.

Clint shook his head. “Nope. Uh, no, sir,” he said, remembering he was speaking to his captain. It was easy to forget rank when talking to a man as good-natured as Steve Rogers—even if that good nature was only a well-crafted disguise. “All that damn hammering probably scared the fish off. Something did, at least. I haven’t had a single bite.” He sighed. “Just _one_ night this week I’d like to eat something that isn’t cured or crusted in salt.”

A hilariously perturbed look came over Steve’s face then, as if he’d just realized something important and couldn’t believe he didn’t think of it until now. He turned and hurried across the deck, leaving Clint staring after him.

“It, it’s not your fault the food’s bad, sir!” he called. “Don’t tell Mr Lee I just said that!”

* * *

Starbuck was sleeping so soundly that he didn’t even stir when Steve entered the room. He approached the bed and placed a tray of food on the low chest of drawers nearby. He gazed down at the Delfin and was alarmed to see beads of sweat standing out on his flushed face. In fact, there was a sheen of sweat over his whole body.

Steve hurried to the other side of the bed and kneeled down beside the cask of water. He whipped out his handkerchief and drenched it under the tap, then rose and applied the sopping cloth to Starbuck’s burning cheeks.

The Delfin’s eyes fluttered open and he looked up at Steve drowsily. “That feels good,” he murmured, stirring and languidly stretching his tail over the foot of the bed.

“You’re burning up,” said Steve worriedly. “It’s too warm for you here. You’ll need to go back in the water soon.”

“I’ll be alright.” Starbuck smiled— _that_ was a first, and such a beautiful smile, too—and pushed himself upright. He tucked a few locks of brown hair behind his ear and accepted the wet cloth Steve offered him. He pressed it against his forehead and mopped it down the side of his face and throat, where the punctures from the Sufogru’s spines could still be seen.

“I, uh, brought you some food,” said Steve, gesturing to the tray. “I’m sorry, there’s  been so much happening around here that I forgot to ask if you were hungry earlier. I don’t know when you last ate, or what you usually eat, but . . . there’s stuff here if you want it.”

“I do, definitely. What is there?”

“Ah, a couple smoked fish, bread and—well, let me just bring it over here.”

Steve set the tray on the mattress, and Starbuck immediately grabbed one of the fish and sank his teeth into it. There was a loud crunch and he went still, eyes flicking up to Steve’s.

“Ere’s hones in id.”

“Yeah, um. We usually pick around those.”

Starbuck opened his mouth and removed the mangled fish. “I’ve never eaten anything with the bones still in. The food we’re given, it’s already cut up.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You mean you’ve never caught a fish for yourself? Never killed one and eaten it?”

Starbuck shook his head and took a bite of the filet, careful to avoid any bones.

Steve sat back with a puzzled expression, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that this Delfin, this wild and exotic Marmen who had spent his life in an environment where fish outnumbered his people _at least_ ten-thousand to one, was so sheltered and naïve that he had never caught his own food.

_It has to be part of Hydra’s plan_ , thought Steve darkly. _Ignorance breeds dependence, and dependence means control. Lie to the people, keep them afraid, teach them to rely on their masters to the point of helplessness. It’s the perfect recipe for total control._

Starbuck’s earlier words ran through his mind: _I’m trained to obey. If I obey, there’s no need to worry about anything else._ Steve’s hands unconsciously tightened into fists. He’d like to meet some of these Hydra officials. Meet them with an oar right upside their lying, miserable—

“I like this,” Starbuck said, bringing Steve out of his righteous ass-kicking fantasy. The Delfin was licking his fingers, having finished off the first fish, and was eagerly reaching for the second. “It’s dry, but it tastes good.”

Steve couldn’t help smiling. “You eat mostly fish, I imagine.”

“Fish, shell-animals, _ferwase_ . . . um. The no-bones animals. They’re long and have pointy heads? Big eyes, eight arms?”

“I think those are what we call squid.”

“Skuh- _wid_ ,” Starbuck enunciated. “I like that word. Squid. It’s good to say.” He bit into his fish and grinned, and Steve wondered how this charming, pleasant individual could possibly be the same ruthless Hydra agent who had crippled his ship and beat the stuffing out of some of his best men. It just didn’t seem possible. It was as if the longer he was away from Hydra, the more docile he became.

They had to be doing something to their agents, Steve thought. Drugging them, brainwashing them, sharpening them into deadly tools. Maybe _this_ was the true nature of the Delfi he was seeing: intelligent, curious, playful, a little shy at first, but quick to adapt. If there was any truth to these suppositions, Steve would rather die than send this beautiful soul back to Hydra’s ugly, perverted tentacles.

But it wasn’t up to him, he realized sadly. He could point Starbuck in the right direction, but he would have to make that journey himself. _Please, God_ , he prayed, _please don’t let him go back to Hydra_.

He sat with Starbuck until the tray was finally empty—or empty enough, at least. Steve introduced his new friend to cheese, apples, and bread once he had finished the fish. Starbuck had liked the cheese, been delighted by the apple—“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he had said, his eyes shimmering with emotion—but the bread was a failure. After just one bite, the Delfin was consumed in a fit of hiccoughs. It frightened him at first, having never before experienced such a thing, but Steve calmed him down and gave him several cups of water, and after a short time they went away.

Afterward, he removed the tray while Starbuck curled up on his side with a little yawn. “Thank you, Steve,” he said, tucking his arm beneath his head and smiling. “You’re really nice.”

And just like that, Steve’s heart was gone, vanished, leaving behind a dark red hole in his chest. It belonged to Starbuck now, who was probably so misguided and mistreated that he didn’t even know what love was. It was the most tragic, gut-wrenching thing Steve had ever felt in his life.

But he blinked the blurriness from his eyes and forced himself to smile. “So are you, Buck.”

Starbuck bit his lip and grinned, the end of his tail moving back and forth happily. Steve turned and left the cabin before his pain became evident, and shut the door gently behind himself. He released a long sigh and craned his neck back.

His heart may have been gone, but he doubted it would ever stop hurting.

In fact, he had a feeling it was about to get much, much worse.

* * *

When the sun was finally dipping down to kiss the sea in the west, Scott Lang and his men mounted the quarterdeck, and waited respectfully for their captain’s attention.

Steve, who was in deep conference with Montgomery and Morita over a map, looked up and acknowledged them with a crisp nod. “Good news I hope, Mr Lang?”

“Oh, yessir,” said Scott eagerly. His shirt was open to the waist and soaked with sweat, his face smeared with pitch and his hair full of sawdust. Luis, Dave and Kurt were in a similar state of dishevel, but it was to be expected—they had been working nonstop to repair the _Americus_ since last night. “The hold is dry, the rudder’s fixed, she’s set and ready to sail again, sir!”

This should have been pleasing news, but the captain looked strangely dejected. “Nice work, gentlemen,” he said flatly. “I’ll have Mr Lee send up a tot of our best rum for each of you.”

The quartet seemed to like the sound of that and thanked Captain Rogers for his generosity. He dismissed them and they trotted down the stairs, slapping each other on the back and grinning. However, as they made their way down the main deck, their cheer was dampened by the gloomy mood that seemed to have overtaken the rest of the crew.

“Jeez, what’s a matter?” Luis murmured. “They’re actin like someone just died.”

“Someone did.”

Scott and Company turned to see Gabe Jones, who was sitting somberly on the capstan and mending a damaged net.

“Who died?” asked Scott cautiously.

“That Hydra soldier we dragged in last night, the Delfin.” Gabe kept his eyes fixed on the net. “Cap killed him.”

“No way,” Dave declared. “Captain Rogers would never—”

“He would and he did. I was there, man. He locked himself in the galley and took that Delf _apart_. I heard everything, yellin and screamin, brains and guts hittin the wall . . . it was bad.”

Luis made a small noise in his throat and shrank down.

“There’s gotta be a mistake,” Scott said with a shake of his head. “Did you actually _see_ him kill the guy?”

“No, thank God. I prob’ly wouldn’t be able to eat fish again after seein somethin like that.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Gabe shrugged. “No one’s askin you to. But it happened, like it or lump it.”

“This is _Steve Rogers_ we’re talking about,” Scott exclaimed. “The man can’t even kill a rat without feeling bad!”

“Dumb animals are one thing, the enemy is another,” said Gabe, calmly tying his knots. “I’ve known Rogers a lot longer than you, Scott, and believe me, he’s capable of killin a man if he has to.”

“He shouldn’t _have_ to kill anyone.”

Gabe lifted his head and regarded his shipmate with cynical but sympathetic eyes. “Not if this was a perfect world, no. But it ain’t. It’s broken and corrupt and fulla sin and suffering. Always has been, always will be. Nothin we can do about it. Just gotta keep tryin our best, even if we know it’ll never be good enough. That’s all we can do.”

Scott absorbed these words with a grim face, and knew Gabe was right.

Sam Wilson’s voice cut through the air as he called for the anchor to be raised and the sails unfurled. The _Americus_ was ready to go.

* * *

Starbuck was awake and sitting up when Steve entered the cabin. “I hear the men making noise,” he said anxiously. “What’s happening?”

“We’re getting ready to set sail,” said Steve, walking slowly to the bed. He looked utterly heartbroken, something which did not escape the Delfin’s notice.

“You’re sad,” he said softly. “Is it because I have to leave?”

Steve bowed his head in affirmation.

Starbuck bit his lip and was quiet.

Drawing a deep breath, Steve squatted down at the bedside and opened his arms. Starbuck slid into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Steve’s neck and holding tight as he was lifted.

Together they passed through the bulkhead door and entered the dark, narrow passageway by which they had previously come. Steve went down the steps carefully, cradling Starbuck in his arms like a new bride. No words were spoken between them as they wound their way through the ship’s hull, holding on to each other tightly. Five minutes and four turns later they emerged onto the deserted gun deck, where rows of cannons ran along each side of the ship.

Steve approached the aftmost cannon and crouched down, setting Starbuck gently on the deck beside him. Then, grasping the massive gun by its wooden carriage, he rolled it back—a feat which normally would have taken two or more men—thus clearing the gunport. Starbuck was slightly astonished at the display of raw strength, and watched with fascination as Steve leaned over and opened the gunport. A breeze wafted through the opening, carrying with it the sound and smell of the sea, which lapped at the hull not ten feet below. Steve secured the hatch on its chains and took a moment to gaze out across the miles of blue. He looked as if he might never smile again.

Starbuck flipped his tail and scooted forward until he was sitting beside Steve. He studied his face from the side, then laid his head against the captain’s arm.

“Do you think you’ll be able to find your way?” Steve asked, keeping his eyes trained on the horizon.

“I think so.”

From above came the creak of rigging and the flapping of sails, punctuated by unintelligible barks from the crew.

“You better get going,” said Steve, moving aside. “While everyone’s still occupied.”

Starbuck slowly drew his tail about and thrust it over the edge of the deck. He paused and stared down into the water like it was already place he had long forgotten. “I don’t wanna go,” he said suddenly, turning to Steve. His eyes were large and mournful. “I wanna stay.”

“You can’t, Buck. You belong to the sea.”

“I belong to no one,” said Starbuck fiercely.

Steve’s eyes inadvertently fell to that attractive gray-blue shoulder, where Hydra’s brand was permanently burned. Starbuck saw where he was gazing and placed a hand over the ugly red emblem, turning his head in shame.

It was more than Steve could bear. Customs be damned. He reached out and pulled Starbuck into his arms, holding him against his chest, stroking his long brown hair. Starbuck, perhaps startled at first, quickly worked out what the man was trying to say; he wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist and hugged him back, burrowing his face into the warmth and smell of his clothes.

They stayed like this for a minute or two, clinging to each other and listening to the sounds of their worlds interacting with one another: water against wood, men’s voices in the air, the wind playfully licking the waves.

Steve pulled away first, and when he looked at Starbuck, he seemed terribly blurry and deformed. A blink later and he was clear again. “Go,” he said roughly.

Starbuck retreated shyly and grasped the frame of the gunport. “I won’t forget you, Steve Rogers,” he murmured.

And then he was gone, plunging headfirst into the sea, with scarcely a sound or a splash. White foam rose from the spot where he had disappeared, but Steve didn’t see it—he had already turned from the gunport and dropped the hatch closed. He turned and sank against the bulkhead, clenching his teeth. He thumped the back of his head against the wall, trying to rally his thoughts to more important things. His ship, his crew, their course, this war. That amazing, beautiful person who had come into his life as an enemy and left as a friend.

_Well, he’s a ghost now_ , thought Steve, threading his fingers together. _The soldier that came aboard this ship is dead. I killed him. A Delfin named Starbuck took his place._

Steve closed his eyes. “Please, God, keep him safe,” he prayed. “And if it be Your will . . . please bring him back to me.”

* * *

Starbuck swam down, down, down, the primitive parts of his biology relishing the cool weightlessness of being in the sea once more. He expelled the last bubbles of air from his lungs and drew a deep, long breath, flooding them completely. The internal muscles that had been unused in the thin atmosphere above became active once more, expanding and contracting, extracting the oxygen from each lungful of water. His body was glad to be back in the ocean. His heart, however . . .

He slowed and turned around, looking up at the great shadow of the _Americus_ passing over him. He had lost his knives on that ship, he reflected. And his vest. And the Sufogru that Hydra insisted was for their soldiers’ protection. But he had lost more than just weapons aboard the _Americus_. Gone was his ignorance, his blind subservience, the passive way he swallowed whatever he was given. He had gained something, too. A name—not just any name, but a _good_ name. He was Starbuck the Delfin, one of the last of the Delfi, and he had some pointed questions for Hydra if he ever—

“ _There_ you are, Little Brother.”

Starbuck whipped around. Two shapes drifted into view from the darkness below him. Slow, ominous shapes that moved from side to side, vertical fins cutting sharply through the murky water. Starbuck’s heart went cold when he realized who it was. The seekers. He’d forgotten about the seekers. And Hydra hadn’t sent just anyone, oh no.

They had sent Batroc. And his partner, Rumlow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To mitigate some of the angst I just piled on you all, here's a cheerful little illustration of [Star]Bucky and Steve in happier times yet to come.
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	5. Hail Hydra

Starbuck’s first instinct was to turn and flee. He had already made up his mind that he wasn’t going back to Hydra, and while Delfins were some of the swiftest swimmers in the sea, he was no match for two full-grown Carcarins in their prime. They would overtake him in a matter of seconds, even at his highest speed. So he stayed where he was, hovering in the water while Rumlow and Batroc slowly circled him. They were clad in the same black vests as the one Starbuck had been wearing when he was dragged aboard the _Americus_ , and, like him, they bore the insignia of Hydra on their left shoulders. But the similarities ended there. They were the biggest, strongest, and most violent of Hydra’s soldiers—prized assets, they were called. Champions. Defenders of the Ideal. To Starbuck, they were simply bullies.

“We were beginning to think the humans killed you,” said Rumlow, nostrils flaring as he smelled the water around Starbuck. “They removed your Sufogru, I see. Did they make you talk?”

Starbuck shook his head.

“How did you manage to escape, Soldier?” Batroc demanded.

“They let me go,” he answered, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

The two Carcarins shared an ugly peal of laughter.

“Humans don’t just let our kind _go_ ,” Rumlow sneered. “You must have done something, Little Brother. Entertained them for a while, maybe? Is that why your uniform is missing? Did they use you for sport?”

“What? No, they . . .” Starbuck had no idea what Rumlow was talking about. “They helped me. They treated my wounds and let me go.”

“Liar,” Batroc snarled, and seized the Delfin’s arm in his big fist. “Look at the marks they put on you. Why would they damage something only to fix it later? It makes no sense. What _really_ happened up there?”

“I’m not lying!” cried Starbuck, wrenching out of the painful grasp. “The men attacked me, yes, but one of them didn’t. He was nice and he took care of me and kept me safe from the ones who hurt me. I wanted—” He stopped himself; it wouldn’t be wise to mention he would have liked to stay with the human, Steve Rogers. That was tantamount to treason. “He was kind and decent, nothing like what Hydra told us. He said I belonged to the sea, so he let me go.”

“He was wrong,” said Rumlow, swimming up to Starbuck and looking him coldly in the eye. “You belong to Hydra. The sea doesn’t care about you, Little Brother. It’s just a thing, an element. Like air and earth.” He reached up and laid his sharp-nailed fingers on Starbuck’s shoulder, over the red tattoo. “Come home. Let us take care of your wounds, heal your body. Soon you’ll be in fighting shape again.”

Starbuck flicked his tail and drifted away from Rumlow’s touch. “I don’t wanna do that anymore,” he said boldly, glaring at the Carcarin he had known practically his whole life. “I’m through fighting. I want freedom.”

Batroc narrowed his eyes. “You want to be a civilian?”

“I wanna leave.”

“Leave?”

“I don’t want anything to do with Hydra anymore. They . . .” Starbuck’s heart pounded in his chest. Yes, he could do this. “I think they killed the Delfi on purpose, because they contacted humans. There was no disease. They were murdered because they were interfering with Hydra’s plans to conquer the Marmeni. _You’re_ old enough to know the truth, so what happened? Did Hydra kill my people?”

Rumlow and Batroc shared a glance with each other, dark and serious.

Starbuck clenched his fists. “Did Hydra kill my people!”

“What does it matter?” said Rumlow. “That was twenty-five years ago. You were just a pup then. If you don’t remember, why should it concern you?”

“It concerns me that Hydra might have killed my family.”

“Hydra _is_ your family, Soldier,” said Batroc. “And they always will be, whether you like it or not.”

“No. Not anymore.” Starbuck began to swim slowly backward. The two Carcarins followed, stalking him like prey. “I’m not going back to them. I want—I, I’m gonna live by myself from now on.”

Rumlow began to laugh. “Live by yourself? You wouldn’t last long enough to starve to death. I’ve lived out there, Little Brother. I’ve been sick and cold and hungry, and lonelier than you could ever imagine. You’ve never been any of those things. Do you know why? Because you were lucky enough to have been raised in the safety of Hydra’s bosom. They’ve looked after you, cared for you when you were ill, fed you, allowed you to grow up healthy and strong. And this is how you repay them, by accusing them of deeds that have no bearing on the present. By abandoning them.”

Starbuck shrank from Rumlow’s increasing intensity, and bumped into Batroc’s broad chest. He was trapped between them.

“ _I’ve_ been abandoned, Little Brother,” he continued forcefully. “Do you know what it’s like being an orphaned Carcarin? Being scorned because my fins aren’t flat like yours, being feared and hated simply for being one of the shark people? No, you don’t. You’ve been accepted and sheltered all your life. You think Hydra is evil? No, it’s the _world_ that’s evil, and Hydra’s making it a better place. They took me in when no one else would. I owe them my life, and I’d gladly give it for them if I had to. ‘Live by yourself’?” He scoffed. “I’d rather die than live in a world without Hydra.”

“Hail Hydra,” Batroc murmured, touched by his partner’s rhetoric.

Starbuck bowed his head. Rumlow reached out and lifted the Delfin’s chin with his fingers. “Forget this nonsense, Little Brother,” he said gently. “Come home. Come back to your family. We would miss you if you left us.”

Even if Starbuck had been capable of out-swimming him, Rumlow’s soft, manipulative words extinguished all desire to flee. With a heavy, guilt-ridden heart he relented and, nodding his assent, allowed the two Carcarins to escort him into the deep.

* * *

One thing could be said for Hydra, and that was they were highly organized. There were hundreds of outposts spread across the floor of the world’s oceans, and dozens of larger bases that these units reported to, according to their location. Rumlow and Batroc were assigned to Base Theta-2, the division headquarters of the Southeast Sea, and it was here that they brought Starbuck.

The bases were designed to be flat and inconspicuous, subterranean, completely unlike the bright, towering cities of stone and coral that the Marmeni used to build. Much of that old architecture was lost now, or being altered to better suit Hydra’s cold, practical vision. It was only a matter of time until the humans found a way to navigate beneath the sea, they told the Marmeni years ago. And when they do, those colorful structures and sparkling facades will be the first things they destroy.

The Marmeni had listened, and the fear that Hydra planted in their hearts drove them to bury the radiant beauty that had been their culture. Now their cities stood gray and bleak, the topiaries razed, the statues and vast gardens of anemones removed. The acres of oceanic flowers and corals, the rainbow of glowing mosses and phosphorescent rock that lighted their cities, fauna and flora never seen by human eyes—all that was gone.

For Starbuck, this dim environment of gray and brown was all he had ever known. If he had been alive fifty years ago and seen the breathtaking splendor that was the kingdom of Delfia, he might have deviated from Hydra long before this day. But his ignorance—and his innocence, however contrived—kept him compliant, a soft clay to be molded for Hydra’s needs.

They entered Theta-2 through the main cave entrance, a low, broad opening which was guarded by several well-concealed Tsipari. The eel folk acknowledged them with a salute as they passed. After a short distance, the floor of the corridor fell off into a darkness almost too thick to be navigated, even by those possessing sensitive Marmeni eyes. Rumlow reached out and grasped Starbuck’s rope-bitten wrist, guiding him down into the heart of the base.

Gradually the passage leveled off and was illuminated, and they came into the headquarters’ main chamber. A diverse assembly of agents was busy with day-to-day operations: delivering reports, receiving and dispatching messengers, studying maps made of large sheets of organic, translucent film, discussing strategies and logistics. At the center of this buzzing hive was Commander Pierce, the executive officer of Base Theta-2.

Pierce was an inscrutable, silver-haired Octratsa, one of the octopus people, and his ruthlessness was as renown as his intellect. He spied his two subordinates and excused himself from his current conversation, stretching out his long gray tentacles and gliding over to meet them. Rumlow and Batroc straightened their tails and saluted smartly. Starbuck floated between them, looking small and vulnerable.

“Sir. Retrieval of the asset accomplished,” stated Rumlow.

“Good work, _comoradi_ ,” said Pierce, peering down at the Delfin with his eerie rectangular pupils. He grasped Starbuck’s jaw and turned his head from side to side, examining him. “He’s been damaged.”

“Minimally, sir. He said the humans treated his wounds.”

“Indeed.”

Starbuck couldn’t help but shudder as Pierce’s tentacles began to pat at his body, feeling his wounds. The tiny suckers smacked against his skin like greedy mouths. It felt ghastly. One of the tentacles dipped into the laceration on his bicep, rubbed for a moment, then retreated. Pierce sniffed at the evidence he had collected.

“I wouldn’t put it past the humans to poison him,” he muttered. “Whatever they applied to his wounds is still there, some kind of oil. He might be contaminated. We better move him to Base Epsilon for a complete examination.”

Rumlow and Batroc glanced warily at the Delfin between them. Contamination was a serious problem to the Marmeni; often those who became “infected” by humans were never seen or heard from again, and Hydra strove to prevent these unfortunate tragedies, such as they were. “We cannot bear a repeat of what happened to our Delfin brothers,” they would say in their frequent addresses to the public. “If you suspect someone you know is contaminated, please contact your local Hydra council so treatment can begin as soon as possible.”

Starbuck, however, was no longer convinced that contamination was real. In fact, the very idea that Steve Rogers would try to poison him made Starbuck absolutely furious.

“It’s not poison!” he cried. “It’s something called anta-septik! It’ll keep away infections, and it even made the pain—”

One of Pierce’s tentacles shot out and wrapped around the Delfin’s throat, cutting off his words. “When I want your opinion, Soldier, I’ll ask for it.”

“My name,” he uttered shakily, “is Starbuck.”

A look of surprise came across Pierce’s typically stone-like face. “Starbuck,” he repeated. “And who told you that?”

Starbuck clenched his jaws and glared defiantly at his superior.

“How long were you aboard that vessel, Soldier? What did you tell them? What did you let them do to you?”

No answer.

Pierce released Starbuck’s throat, exhaled a few bubbles, then struck him across the face with the back of his hand. Rumlow and Batroc flinched slightly, but made no move to help their charge. Starbuck recovered from the blow and turned back to face Pierce. A foggy smear of blood trailed from his nose and dissolved into the surrounding water.

“Enough of this,” Pierce muttered. “Take him to Base Psi. Tell Zola his little soldier is unfit for service and needs to be adjusted.”

At the mention of Zola’s name, Starbuck went utterly boneless. “No,” he murmured, but Rumlow and Batroc had already taken him by each of his arms.

Pierce was amused at the terror he saw in the Delfin’s eyes. It was almost enough to make him smile. “Tell Zola to take his time,” he said. “It’s very likely the asset is contaminated, and we want to make sure he’s clear before he returns to duty. You’re dismissed, _comoradi_.”

“Sir,” they said, and proceeded to drag Starbuck, fighting and flailing, from the chamber.

“No, wait, please!” he cried.

Commander Pierce watched dispassionately.

“I’m not contaminated! You’re lying!”

But struggling was useless against the strength of the Carcarian soldiers; Starbuck was pulled into the dark corridor, his screams reverberating off the stone walls.

“ _Don’t send me back to him!_ ”

* * *

Steve gave a startled twitch and woke up suddenly, almost toppling off his desk stool in the process. His pencil, still in his right hand, clattered to the floor. A piece of paper was stuck to his left hand, another to his cheek. He had only put his head down a few minutes ago, hadn’t he? The milky glow of moonlight through the windows told him that he was a few hours off his mark. He carefully removed the paper from his face and looked down at it.

Notes written in his haphazard artist’s hand. Sketches of tails and flukes. Portraits of a handsome face with large, sad eyes. Diagrams of that vile Sufogru. More notes. Steve hoped the ink hadn’t transferred to his face. He could just imagine the looks if he appeared on deck with backward text all over his cheek.

He sighed and stretched his neck, massaging away the soreness. His mind had been adrift in the deep blue darkness of dreams, too dark to see, but there was plenty he could feel: dread, anxiety, helplessness. The tide was carrying him away from the shore and out to sea, and no matter how hard he swam, he kept drifting away, pulled by an invisible force toward some nameless horror. It was a hollow place, he felt, a building from his past—perhaps a school or a hospital—where he had endured pain and grief and confusion, but Steve couldn’t recall such a place in his childhood. He had been small and sickly as a boy, but his experiences in hospitals had been pleasant: kind nurses, fatherly doctors, get-well cards from his fellow pupils at the academy. Why would he dream such a thing?

Steve turned in his seat and looked over at the bed. The sheets were still rumpled, spotted here and there with reddish-brown stains. Starbuck’s blood. Steve would be sleeping in them soon; there were no other clean sheets aboard, and until the ship dropped anchor at Purawai, they would remain as they were. Steve wondered if his bed would smell like Starbuck, that sweet and briny scent he had first detected while carrying him up from the galley.

Staring at the bed, _his_ bed, where the Delfin had slept and smiled, it didn’t take long for Steve’s thoughts to sink to more primitive meditations. Had Starbuck ever made love before? How was mating accomplished among Delfins? Was his biology anything like a human’s? Was he capable of experiencing the same pleasures during the act? Was his climax satisfying, or simply a matter of course?

The images came easily to Steve: Starbuck’s sea-green eyes, half-lidded, dark with desire. His red lips curving upward into a grin, tongue flicking out to wet them. His bottom lip gently caught between his teeth. Breathing quietly, heavily, through his mouth. _I’m probably not doing a very good job_ , said a voice that sounded like Steve’s. Starbuck smiled, reached up behind Steve’s neck and pulled him down. _I think you are._ That playful tongue teased at Steve’s lips, bringing their mouths together and—

“I gotta stop,” declared Steve, launching off of the stool. He began to pace his cabin, restlessly swinging his arms and taking long, slow breaths to calm himself. Damn, it was hot in here. He was sweating like a—

Sweat on Starbuck’s brow, his chest, his whole body. Sleepy eyes fluttering open. _That feels good_ , he said, stretching his beautiful gray-blue tail over the—

Steve made a strangled sound in his throat and flung himself at the window. He scrabbled at the latch, threw open the sashes, and leaned out, inhaling a refreshing lungful of ocean air. The breeze riffled through his blond hair and cooled the sweat on his face. He closed his eyes and thought about the sea, its calm blue depths, its steady rhythm of tides. The hot magenta fantasies began to fade. Good. It didn’t seem right to think about Starbuck that way.

 _Yet_ , his brain added, and Steve silently scolded himself. _Shameful_. This was a poor, confused Delfin he was thinking about, not a sporting lady or a bawdy sailor with loose lips and even looser morals. This was somebody’s son. This was a person who felt pain and hunger and sorrow the same as Steve. This was someone who had lost his culture and his people and all notions of independent thought—at least until recently. Maybe Steve had planted a seed in that fertile mind of Starbuck’s. Maybe he was getting along right now, inspired and happy and free. Maybe he was taking what he knew back to his mates, telling them about his experience, liberating them from decades of Hydra’s mental slavery.

Steve sighed and leaned on the sill. There was little difference between the fantasy he had spun earlier and the fantasy he was spinning now. The latter was a few degrees more dignified, certainly, but it was still just a fantasy, an elusive hope.

He stared out at the horizon, the caps of the waves gleaming silver and blue beneath the crescent moon.

Hope. It had the capacity to work for or against someone, either giving them wings to sail into the future or tethering them to a sinking wreck called the past.

Steve prayed that he had given Starbuck wings. Surely he would need them, sooner or later.


	6. Poisoned

“I am _not_ infected,” Starbuck repeated for what seemed like the thousandth time. “Look at me! Do I look sick to you?”  
  
“You don’t have to look sick to be sick,” said Rumlow flatly, pulling the Delfin along beside him. “Lots of Marmeni who looked normal turned out to be contaminated. I just hope it’s not too late for you.”  
  
“ _I_ just hope he is not contagious,” Batroc muttered, following a short distance behind.  
  
“I’m not contagious because I’m not contaminated!” Starbuck cried over his shoulder. He turned back to Rumlow and hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “You know it wasn’t a human disease that killed the Delfi. It was Hydra. They’ve been lying to us all these years and making us afraid just so they could control us. Think about it: the Delfi knew it was forbidden to contact humans, but they did it anyway. Why? Because Hydra had taken over Delfia and was destroying their lives, the lives of all Marmeni! Humans never did anything to us, they were only trying to hel—”  
  
Rumlow jerked his powerful tail to the side, bringing them to a halt. He turned to Starbuck with a fearsome expression and squeezed his wrist tightly. “You Delfins have to be the most gullible idiots to ever tread water,” he snarled. “You take the word of one conniving human over the wisdom of all your comrades, just because he was _nice to you_? Did it ever occur in that simple little brain of yours”—he tapped Starbuck’s forehead, not gently—“that maybe this kind, caring, _wonderful_ man you met is just using you? That maybe he’s purposely trying to cause discontent among the Marmeni by putting these dangerous ideas into your head?”  
  
“If Steve is right, then maybe the Marmeni _should_ be discontent.”  
  
“Steve?” Batroc repeated.  
  
Starbuck bit his lip. He had said too much.  
  
Rumlow narrowed his eyes at the Delfin a moment, studying him, then shook his head as if dismissing an errant thought. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were in love. But that’s impossible. You were only gone half a day, not long enough to . . .” He trailed off, gazing down at the wide-eyed, puzzled expression on Starbuck’s face. “Never mind. Zola will be able to fix whatever’s wrong with you. Now come on, we still have a long way to go.”  
  
He began to swim again, and Starbuck, unable to free himself from his grip, swam with him.

* * *

Base Psi, unlike Hydra’s typically flat, single-level operation posts, was located on the side of volcanic seamount, down in the cold, dark wastes of the abyssal plain. It was carved out of the mountain itself, its towers and turrets of rough-hewn basalt looming over the ocean floor like a scabrous castle. All around it hydrothermal vents poured clouds of gas and sulfurous minerals, warming the water and giving it its distinctive rotten odor. It was a smell that Starbuck would forever associate with Zola, the author of every negative and unpleasant feeling he had experienced in his twenty-six years of life. Phosphorescent plants and animals, thriving on the nutrient-rich emissions of the sea vents, filled the area with a dim green light. It was a sinister, foreboding-looking place.  
  
Starbuck shuddered as he and his chaperones passed a billowing fumarole, though it was more of a reaction to the warm water than a fear response. The Carcari were unaffected by such changes in temperature, which was why Hydra often deployed them in polar regions and to depths where the water was just barely above freezing. Their blood was different from that of Delfins, who needed warmth to survive.  
  
But warmth was the last thing on Starbuck’s mind right now. It had been nearly two years since he’d last been to Base Psi, and he was discouraged to see that it was much busier than when he’d left. Medisi, the Marmeni equivalent of human doctors and scientists, and their apprentices flitted in and out of its many ports. This was Hydra’s main scientific research division, a bastion of innovation and advancement, the greatest gathering of intellectual minds beneath the sea. And Zola, without a doubt, was the most brilliant of them all.  
  
It was in Zola’s lab that the first Sufogru was hatched, a freakish but profitable hybrid between a sea urchin and a chiton. He created the multi-mineral tablets that were consumed by Hydra’s fighting forces, which increased their energy, stamina, and muscle mass. He developed a countless number of vaccines and serums, including the drug that supposedly saved the Delfin race from extinction. He was the pride of Hydra, a jewel in their crown of superiority.  
  
Zola was perversely delighted to see his young protégé again, and scuttled across the vestibule of his research theater to welcome the visitors from Theta-2. Zola was a member of the seal race, the Siula, who tended to be small, plump, and excitable. He blinked at Starbuck from behind his spectacles, which enlarged his eyes to comical proportions.  
  
“Why, if it isn’t my little winter soldier,” he cooed in his strange accent, petting the top of Starbuck’s head. “What brings you back to Psi so soon? You’re not due for another round of inoculations until next year.”  
  
“Commander Pierce believes he’s been contaminated,” said Rumlow, shoving Starbuck forward. “He was captured by humans during a mission and detained for several hours before he escaped. His wounds were treated with a foreign substance, possibly a poison.”  
  
“Oh dear,” said Zola dramatically. “The commander was right to send him to me. I’ll start him on an antitoxin immediately. Come, my Delfling, let’s get you taken care of.”  
  
Starbuck sent Rumlow a desperate look over his shoulder, but the Carcarin deliberately turned his head. Was that remorse he saw on his face? No, impossible. Not unless Rumlow knew—  
  
“Come, come, come,” Zola tutted, grasping the Delfin’s arm and pulling him forward. “We mustn’t delay. Those human poisons go straight to your brain, you know. It’s a miracle you’re not suffering from raging paranoia yet. That’s how it starts: delusions of persecution, followed by emotional instability as the toxins enter the limbic system and overexcite the normal bioelectric processes. We’ll have to counteract that, of course. You’ll be quite relieved to hear I’ve come up with a much gentler way to administer shock therapy than the old methods you’re used to. Goodness knows how many of your neurons have been destroyed over the years . . .”  
  
Starbuck could have resisted then—could have bitten Zola, broken free, shown that he was no longer willing to endure the brutal methods Hydra employed to dominate their soldiers. But years of careful conditioning and handling made him submissive to authority figures; even though his mind was freed from the chains of instinctive compliance, his body had no idea how to react in these situations. He was, in simpler terms, physically unable to defend himself against Hydra’s superiors, no matter how much he despised them.  
  
So he went with Zola, unwillingly but unavoidably, to the little examination room where his condition would be evaluated.

* * *

When Steve finally emerged on deck around mid-morning, Sam had to make a conscious effort to keep his facial expression neutral. The captain looked like he’d rolled off the edge of a cliff, fallen straight into hell, and hit every rock on the way down. Dark half-moons hung under his glazed eyes, his complexion was drained and dull, his chops bristly and unshaven. His whole body sagged as if weighted down by an unseen burden, his clothes uncharacteristically rumpled and wrinkled. Sam had seen drunks at the end of a week-long bender in better condition.  
  
Steve trudged across the forecastle deck and stood beside his first mate, gazing ahead at the cheerful blue horizon, utterly unaffected. On a normal day he would have asked for a report, given orders, inhaled a deep lungful of fresh air, smiled, said something optimistic and uplifting. Today all he did was hover beside Sam like a gloomy raincloud, silent and suffering.  
  
“You’re thinking about the Delfin, aren’t you,” said Sam softly.  
  
Steve nodded.  
  
Sam reached out and grasped his captain’s—and friend’s—shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “There wasn’t anything more you coulda done,” he said. “Military operations like this, all espionage and covert missions . . . they don’t leave a lot of room for mercy.”  
  
“Maybe.” Steve paused, swallowed with difficulty. “I let him go, Sam.”  
  
“Let who?”  
  
“The Delfin. I didn’t kill him. I let him go.”  
  
For a split second, Sam Wilson was certain he was losing his mind. “Wait, you didn’t . . . you mean he’s alive?”  
  
Steve smiled bitterly. “I made a ruckus in the galley so you’d all think I killed him. Instead I took him to my cabin and patched him up, looked after him for a while. I released him yesterday as we were setting sail.”  
  
Sam absorbed this information for a minute, pensively stroking his well-groomed goatee. “I think I like the thought of you being a sneaky, protocol-breaching SOB than a murdering bastard.” He let out a long, relieved sigh and put his hands on his hips. “Yeah, I like that _a lot_ better. Damn. Whatta load off.”  
  
There was no comment from Steve.  
  
Sam peered over at him suspiciously. “What’s got you so down, Rogers? One Hydra soldier got a free pass, so what. At least you’re not a killer.”  
  
“It’s not that, Sam. It’s . . .” Steve drew in a breath and leaned on the rail, staring out at the sea. “I got the Sufogru off of him so he could talk. He spoke our language perfectly. There were a few words he wasn’t familiar with, but he learned quick. He was smart, very curious about everything. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever . . . it’s like he became a different person once he knew he was out of danger. He was shy and quiet at first, but when he got a little more comfortable he was able to smile and ask questions. He seemed so innocent. Like a kid. The simplest things made him happy.”  
  
As Steve spoke, Sam’s face was gradually melting into an expression of weary annoyance.  
  
“I tried to get through to him,” Steve went on. “I think I did—he told me what life was like for him, about how Hydra ‘protects them from the outside’ and doesn’t teach them how to take care of themselves. Keeping them dumb and helpless, basically. He seemed willing to listen to me, so at least we know he’s open-minded. Maybe he’ll learn to think for himself and get out from under Hydra’s thumb. I hope he can. He didn’t have a name to go by, so I called him Starbuck. He seemed to like that.”  
  
Sam began to massage his forehead as if he had a migraine coming on.  
  
“There was so much more we could have learned from him, but he wasn’t doing too good up here. I think it’s too warm for him above water; he got a little feverish and I had to wet him with a cloth, but he seemed fine afterwards. His physiology, Sam, it’s just incredible. His skin, his eyes . . . the Delfi are such beautiful people. I made a sketch of him while he was sleeping so we could study—”  
  
“No, no, _no_ ,” Sam muttered, “this is not happening. Lord, please tell me this isn’t happening.”  
  
“What? What’s wrong?”  
  
Sam glared at Steve. “You’re completely infatuated, Rogers. That’s what’s wrong. You’re ass over teakettle in love with this guy!”  
  
The look on the captain’s face confirmed it, even if his mouth didn’t. “No, I’m fascinated by him, there’s a differe—”  
  
Sam threw his hands heavenward. “Yup, there it is, the denial. I was right. You’re in love with a Delfin. And not just _any_ Delfin, no, he had to be a _Hydra agent_ —”  
  
“Keep your voice down!”  
  
“—‘cause Steve Rogers don’t do things by halves, _hell_ no, when he breaks the rules he shatters ‘em—”  
  
“Sam, please, don’t make me pull rank on you.”  
  
“What’s the matter? No one’ll believe this shit anyhow. God knows _I_ don’t!” Sam took a few measured breaths to compose himself. It seemed to work. A little. “Look, Steve, you were my friend long before you were my captain. I know how you are. You’ve got a good heart, and you always see the best in people. When you fall for someone, you fall hard and fast—”  
  
“Sam . . .”  
  
“—and I just don’t wanna see you get your heart broken like what happened with that pretty little thing in South Midero last year. Remember that?”  
  
Steve remembered. He put a hand over his eyes, thoroughly embarrassed.  
  
“And that other pretty thing from Sibeska. What was his name?”  
  
“Robiert.”  
  
“Ro-bee-airt. And what happened the second Ro-bee-airt found out he was gonna have to wait two and a half years to see you again?”  
  
“He dropped me.”  
  
“That’s right, he dropped you faster than a reeking chum bucket.”  
  
Steve hunched miserably over the rail. Sam couldn’t have felt worse than if he’d just kicked a baby seal. Trying to shake some sense back into his best friend was one thing; reminding him of his catastrophic forays into romance was quite another.  
  
“Hey,” he said gently, “I’m not tryin to run you down, man. I’m just tryin to look out for you, keep your head straight. Pun intended.”  
  
A crooked smile came to Steve’s lips.  
  
“It’s hard enough tryin to make human relationships work in a time like this. But a relationship with a Delfin? Even if y’all didn’t live in two different worlds, it’d be close to impossible for you to . . . y’know. Have anything normal.”  
  
“I know. But I still care about him, Sam. I’m worried for him. He’s got a conscience and a brain and fighting skills, but he doesn’t know how to survive without Hydra.”  
  
Sam crossed his arms. “You wanna try to find him?”  
  
“What’s the point?” Steve waved a hand toward the vast seascape. “It’d be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. He’s probably long gone by now.”  
  
“But you can’t stop thinking about him.”  
  
Steve nodded pathetically. “I wish I could. I’d sleep a lot better for one thing.” He sighed. “If only I knew he was alright. If I knew he was safe and happy, then none of this would matter. I’d be able to forget him and move on.”  
  
Sam snorted. “Forget falling in love with an enemy fish-man? Right. What color were his eyes?”  
  
“Greenish-blue. Like the glacial waters of the Northern Pass, that kind of light teal color.”  
  
“Case in point.”  
  
“I’m an artist, Sam. I notice these things.”  
  
“Whatever. All I know is, if we ever see this guy—”  
  
“Starbuck.”  
  
“—if we ever see Starbuck Rogers of the light teal-colored, glacial-water eyes again, I’m gonna deck him for smackin me in the face with his tail.” He cocked an eyebrow. “If I can get through you, of course.”  
  
Steve grinned despite himself. “Thanks, Sam.”  
  
Sam mirrored his friend’s smile and clapped a hand on his back. “Anytime, Cap. Just . . . stay away from seafood for a while. I saw Mr Lee choppin up this sexy lobster for the bisque tonight and I don’t wanna lose you to that one, too.”  
  
“Oh, come on—” Steve started, but he was laughing too hard to finish.

* * *

“My, my,” Zola tsked, hovering over Starbuck’s body. “Those barbarians certainly tried to kill you, didn’t they. What did they use, hooks? This looks like the work of a hook here. Monstrous. They don’t deserve to inhabit the same world as us.”  
  
Starbuck was strapped down on a hard granite table made slightly less torturous by the thin padding of woven seaweed on its surface.  He bit his lip and shut his eyes tightly as Zola pressed the glowing end of a cauterizing tool to the laceration on his tail, melting the skin and sealing the wound. Starbuck clenched his fists until the bluish skin of his knuckles went bloodless and white. He’d been enduring these treatments for well over an hour. The disinfecting process beforehand hadn’t felt much better; the chemical jelly that Zola had applied to his wounds burned and stung almost as bad as the cauterizer.  
  
“There,” declared Zola, setting aside his instrument and shutting the hatch of the glowing, geothermal chimney nearby. “All done. Such a high tolerance of pain you still have! I wish all of my subjects had undergone stress management as early as you. It’s been five years since your last gauntlet, and still your endurance is unmatched in Hydra’s records.”  
  
Starbuck kept his mouth shut and waited for Zola to unbuckle the restraints on his arms and tail. His ability to deal with prolonged discomfort was certainly impressive, but internally his body was struggling to cope with the pain, his senses reeling and his thoughts muddy and disconnected. He tried to sit up once he was unstrapped, but was simply too dizzy to manage. Zola had to help him up, clucking sympathetically and cursing the humans under his breath for their vile treatment of such a stellar specimen as his little soldier.  
  
“There now, you’ve been through quite an ordeal. Try not to overexert yourself,” he said, stroking Starbuck’s hair soothingly. “You must be hungry. I’ll send for some food and an extra dose of multi-mineral.” He frowned suddenly as something important occurred to him. “Oh my. I hope you didn’t eat any human food while you were imprisoned. Did they give you food? Did they force you to eat?”  
  
Starbuck shook his head weakly. “They didn’t force me,” he said with some effort. “I was hungry. Their food tasted good.”  
  
Zola put his hands to his face in dismay. “Oh no. No, this is dreadful! How could you have done such a careless thing? Don’t you know that humans poison their food? Oh, what a calamity! It’s too late to dilute the toxins with normal food at this point—we’ll have to do it intravenously. Wait here, I’ll go get the quills.” He disappeared in a flurry of bubbles, calling to his assistants.  
  
_Not quills_ , thought Starbuck dimly, swaying in the water’s slight current. He didn’t want any more of those awful things. He was still feeling disoriented from the antitoxin Zola had given him earlier, as if it had numbed part of his brain and filled him with an overpowering weariness. His limbs were heavy and tired, and he moved sluggishly. Maybe Zola had accidentally given him a sedative instead. No, that was silly. Zola was a professional. He knew what he was doing . . . surely.  
  
Starbuck closed his eyes and sank back onto the table, his impact softened by the surrounding water. Maybe Zola was right, he thought. Maybe there _was_ poison in the food that Steve Rogers gave him, not intentionally, but accidentally. Like a chemical or . . .  
  
“No,” Starbuck uttered, opening his eyes. No. The food Steve had given him was delicious. Like that red thing, the ap-ull. He felt so much better after eating it, and the yellow stuff, too. Jeeze? Cheesh? The bread hadn’t tasted bad, either; it had just upset his breathing pattern for a few minutes, but then Steve had given him water and he was fine again. There was nothing wrong with human food. It wasn’t poisoned. It was—  
  
“It’s Hydra,” he said, and something cold reached into his belly and grabbed his insides in an icy clench. His heart began to beat rapidly, adrenaline momentarily clearing his head.  
  
_Hydra_ was poisoning food, not humans. The quills, the antitoxins, everything, it was all poison. They were using it to control the Marmeni. It worked by—how had Zola put it?— _going straight to the brain._  
  
With mounting horror, Starbuck realized that every lie Hydra had told about humans was true about themselves. Humans hadn’t killed the Delfi. Humans weren’t cruel and merciless. Humans weren’t diseased. Humans didn’t poison their food. Humans weren’t out to invade the oceans and destroy its people. It was _Hydra_ that wanted to do all that.  
  
_And here I am_ , Starbuck thought, looking around the laboratory, _trapped, drugged, and at their mercy_. He curled up on his side, into a little ball, and tried to keep his despair from consuming him. It seemed hopeless. The warmth and kindness of Steve’s memory receded in the encroaching blackness, growing faint and frail: the concerned look on Steve’s face as he took Starbuck into his arms for the first time and carried him up to his nest, the gentle way he treated his wounds, the way he asked for permission to touch him, how he didn’t want to burn even a single strand of his hair . . . _that_ was who Starbuck should be with now. _That_ was someone who truly cared about him.  
  
“Oh, Steve,” he said softly, “I wish you hadn’t let me go. I’d rather be your prisoner than theirs.”


	7. Purawai

“Laaand hooo!”

Clint’s call sent the deckhands rushing to the fore, jostling for a view. Purawai was little more than a thin green line on a sapphire-blue horizon, but it was enough to make the men cheer with excitement. Even Captain Rogers managed to look happy for a moment or two, and that was a reassuring sign. He lowered the spyglass and passed it back to Dugan, who began to order hands to make ready for mooring. Men scrambled aloft, furling the topgallants to slow the ship; the rest of the sails would gradually be rolled up as they neared their destination.

“Look, Captain!” cried Scott Lang, pointing down at the stem of the ship. A pod of dolphins was leaping happily through the foam and wake alongside the _Americus_. They fearlessly dived and resurfaced inches from the ship, their sleek gray bodies flashing as they cut powerful arcs through the air and back into the sea. “They’re welcoming us!”

Luis, standing beside Scott, turned to the captain and asked, “Dolphins bring good luck, don’t they, sir?”

“That’s what every salty dog will tell you,” Steve answered, watching the graceful animals glide effortlessly through the waves. The soreness in his heart deepened to a raw, red burn as he thought of Starbuck. “Luck, laughter, and love.”

“Do _you_ believe that, Captain?”

Steve wanted to smile—even a crooked half of one would have sufficed—but his face simply couldn’t do it. “I used to.”

Scott and Luis stared at him wordlessly, the wind tousling their hair.

Steve lowered his head and walked away, plodding down the forecastle steps and immersing himself in the goings-on amidship. Scott, whom everyone knew carried a blazing torch of devotion for Captain Rogers, was visibly affected by his bleak comment; Luis patted his friend’s shoulder helpfully.

“Hey, don’t worry, man,” he said. “Cap’s just a little depressed about killin that merdude, classic case of cognitive dissonance. My sister’s boyfriend’s cousin went through somethin like that, it was crazy. Talkin like this was the nicest guy you ever met, loved animals and kids and helped little old ladies across the street, then one day he just _snapped_ for no reason and went ballistic down at Petey’s Pub—member that place? I think we went by it a coupla times down on 23rd Street—”

“Captain Rogers did not kill anyone, Luis. I refuse to believe that.”

“But man, you heard what Gabe said. He said he heard everything, guts and blood and meat—”

“Nobody actually saw him do it,” Scott enunciated. “And we got that information secondhand, so maybe there’s—”

“Ohhh,” Luis said, brightening, “I get it, you mean like the principle of cumulative error. Yeah, yeah. You know how like when you tell your bro something, then _he_ goes and tells someone and it changes a little, and then the _next_ person maybe misheard and it changes _again_ —”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Gee, I dunno, that’s a real stretch, man. Gabe’s pretty solid, he wouldn’t make that stuff up.”

“No, but maybe what he heard wasn’t what actually happened. Maybe . . .” Scott sighed forcefully. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m right. I don’t know. All I know is I’ll be glad to get off this ship for a few days.”

Luis nodded sagely. “You and me both, man.”

* * *

There was a wing of Base Psi where patients were kept, a warren of dimly-lit corridors that spiraled deep into the seamount’s interior. There were no rooms—at least not in the sense regarded by humans; instead there were rows upon rows of cocoon-like pods, sized just so to accommodate the largest of the Marmeni, with a single opening to permit passage in and out. The walls of these pods were semi-transparent, rather like frosted glass, which allowed sentries to confirm the patient’s presence with a quick glance. There was very little privacy, but most of the residents undergoing treatment at Psi had bigger problems to contend with than the small matter of personal comfort. Hydra tended to frown upon such things as a whole, choosing instead to glorify the collective over the solitary, the group over the individual. Creativity, diversity, and other signs of non-conformity were quashed as soon as they were detected, and if the problem couldn’t be solved by traditional corrective measures—

“—then they’re labeled as ‘infected’, and they’re either killed or poisoned by Hydra’s drugs until they don’t know who they are anymore,” said Starbuck, keeping his voice low. “Don’t you see? It all makes sense.”

Rumlow crossed his muscular arms over his chest and gazed coolly at the Delfin. “And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”

“Because I need your help,” said Starbuck. He was curled up in his nest, a round little cubby set into the wall and lined with a thick carpet of living grass. He looked terrible, worse than Rumlow remembered—pale, thin, hollow-eyed. Full of fear. Like a hunted animal. It had only been a few days since he had last visited Starbuck, and his condition seemed to have deteriorated dramatically since then. Even Zola had been perplexed by his rapid decline, and prescribed him an extra dose of supplements in addition to the multi-minerals he was already taking. Starbuck had promptly buried the pills in the sandy floor of his pod, along with as much of Hydra’s drug-laced food as he could refuse. He ate just enough to keep himself from collapsing, but even that felt like too much. He gagged on every bite, abhorred the taste. All of this he had explained to Rumlow, who listened with patience unheard of by Carcarian standards. That patience, however, was clearly beginning to wear thin.

“And in what capacity,” Rumlow grunted, “do you think I could _possibly_ help you, Little Brother?”

“You can help me get out of here.”

The Carcarin was silent a moment. “You’re talking about desertion,” he said at last. “That’s punishable by death.”

“What do you think will happen to me if I stay?” said Starbuck. “I can’t resist Hydra indefinitely. If I don’t find a way outta here soon, I’m gonna die. And that’s _if_ they don’t kill me first. The treatments are getting worse, look.” He swept back his hair from his temple, revealing a red, scorched patch of skin. “That’s from an electrode. When they shocked me yesterday, I was blind for an hour. Completely numb for two. They’re trying to wipe my memory, but it’s not working anymore. No one knows why. I think it’s because I stopped taking the pills.”

“So take the pills, idiot. Then they’ll lower the intensity of your treatments and you won’t end up with a brain that’s boiled to jelly.”

“And become their puppet again?” Starbuck snapped. “Turn back into a mindless soldier, eat their lies and poisons day in and day out? Never learn to be anything more than just a tool of their hate?”

“Better than starving yourself just because you don’t agree with them. Better than a violent, brutal death out in the wild.”

Starbuck slowly shook his head, staring at his comrade with sad wonder. “Why? Why are you so loyal to Hydra? Are you blind? Can’t you see they’ve—”

With a flash of his fin, Rumlow had propelled himself across the space and into Starbuck’s nest, pinning the Delfin against the grass. “You think you’re so enlightened,” he snarled, holding him by the wrists. “That you’re the only one who understands. You think I don’t know what’s going on? I’ve been with Hydra longer than you’ve been alive, Little Brother, and I’m not nearly as stupid as you think I am. I’m aware of what they’ve done, how they slaughtered the Delfi for contacting humans, and the lies they spread about disease and contamination. It’s all true, everything you suspect. The chemicals in the food, the mind-control, the extermination of defective soldiers. You’re right about all of it. How satisfying it must be to know that your precious Captain Rogers really _is_ a good man.”

Starbuck’s bottom lip began to tremble. “You knew. You knew and you still choose to follow them. Why?”

“Because they saved me from what I could have been,” said Rumlow through gritted teeth. His pupils were getting large, obscuring his irises. He began to breathe heavily. “I like the drugs they give me. They help me forget the pain and misery of the years I spent alone and unwanted. They stop the nightmares, the fear, the memories. But most of all they suppress what I really am.”

He brought his face down to Starbuck’s, panting with excitement, his eyes almost completely black now. “A killer. A flesh-eater. A slave to my lusts—and they are _many_ , Little Brother. More than what your frail body could satisfy.”

Starbuck flinched when he felt Rumlow’s cold, large hand on his hip.

“So much more,” repeated that harsh, low voice, and the hand crossed his belly, claws dragging lightly over his skin and leaving pink marks as they moved lower, lower—

“Brother, please,” begged Starbuck, and the black discs eclipsing Rumlow’s eyes abruptly shrank. He gave his head a shake and drew back suddenly, blinking, dazed. He glanced up at Starbuck, who was absolutely white with fear.

“Forgive me,” he said thickly. “I never meant . . . I’m so sorry, Little Brother. Now you see what we Carcari really are. Beasts, perverts. Monsters.”

Still shaking, Starbuck emerged from his nest and swam to Rumlow. He opened his arms, just as Steve had done to him in the galley of the _Americus_ , and put them around the Carcarin.

“The only monsters that exist belong to Hydra,” he said softly. “Don’t believe what they say about your race. I don’t.”

Rumlow’s face crumpled with grief; he wrapped his arms around Starbuck, his cold, rough skin warming against the Delfin’s. “You’re so naïve,” he murmured. “Still so innocent, even after all they’ve done to you.”

“Well, they’re not finished yet.”

Pulling away slightly, Rumlow touched his forehead to Starbuck’s in a well-known gesture of affection—one that had been banned by Hydra for over twenty years. “If you want to leave, I won’t try to stop you,” he said, gently holding the sides of Starbuck’s head. “But I can’t do anything else. I’m sorry.”

“I understand.”

“Where will you go?” he asked, reluctantly disengaging from the embrace. “If you do manage to escape, that is.”

“I don’t know,” said Starbuck, twitching his flukes restlessly. “I guess I’ll try to find Steve again. I know he’ll help me.”

A bitter smile came to Rumlow’s lips. “If you can find him. And I don’t think you will, not unless you knew where his ship was headed. Do you?”

Starbuck shook his head.

Rumlow sighed and ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I’m probably going to regret this,” he said at last, “but it might help you. Batroc. You know him, he’s been my partner since before you entered the ranks. Well, before there was Batroc, I had another partner. A Delfin. He ended up defecting, and was the only person I knew who ever actually succeeded in doing it.”

“A Delfin,” Starbuck echoed, his eyes gleaming. “And he escaped? What happened to him? How do you know he succeeded?”

“Because he came back. A couple years after he disappeared, he just shows up out of the blue one day and sneaks into our base, trying to get others to join him. Recruits for a new settlement, he said. A place where you were free, just like in the days before Hydra. But it didn’t work; he was caught by the guards and barely escaped with his life.”

Starbuck was practically shivering with excitement. He swam back and forth in front of Rumlow, similar to a human pacing the floor. “Join him where? Where did he wanna take you?”

Rumlow shook his head. “Someplace in the west, on the other side of the big southern continent. I think it was called Imeria or Imerine. I’d never heard of it.”

“Do you think he went back there after he got away?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Would he still be alive?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. He was one of the sharpest soldiers I’ve ever known. A survivalist, highly organized. He came up with some very complex, elaborate battle plans. We still use them on missions.”

“Oh, please”—Starbuck clasped his hands together—“please tell me he had a name.”

“Not while he served with Hydra,” said Rumlow slowly. “But he was old enough to remember the name his parents gave him, before they were murdered twenty-five years ago. It was Zemo.”

* * *

The _Americus_ had dropped anchor in Oyster Cove, the deep and protected bay on the west side of the island, and her crew were disembarking with excessive jolliness. The men would have been glad to camp overnight on a desolate rock, but Purawai was a true treasure of the south seas, home to lush green hills, clear blue waters, a thriving port town, friendly inhabitants, and enough beauty to soothe the most broken of hearts.

Once the captain had gone over inventory lists with his officers and made arrangements for securing all necessary provisions, he was finally able to excuse himself from the bustling activities at the pier and slip away quietly—or so he thought. He was joined suddenly by a much smaller person on his right: Helen Cho. She seemed to have the same idea as Steve, and the two silently blended into the crowd, making their way toward town.

“How are you doing?” she finally asked, looking at him from the side.

“I’m alive. Can’t really complain.”

“Listen, about that day in the infirmary—”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Helen. I deserved that slap.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said firmly. “I had no right to hit you like that. All I was thinking of was my own grief and pain. I never even considered yours. It was selfish of me and I ask your forgiveness.”

Steve turned and gave her a warm smile. “You’re probably the least selfish person I know, but since you want to be formal about it, alright, I officially forgive you. Now please, let’s put all this behind us and talk about something a little happier.”

Helen rolled her eyes. “I’m a realist, captain, not an optimist. You want rainbows and sunshine, talk to Scott. I don’t think he lives on the same plane of reality as the rest of us.”

“He’s just good-hearted and easygoing. That’s why I wanted him on my ship.”

“I thought it was because Hank Pym begged you to take him off his hands.”

“More like get him away from his daughter.”

Helen laughed. The sound of it cheered Steve up better than the finest singers in the world could have done.

“What do you plan to do on furlough?” he asked once she had calmed herself.

“First,” said Helen emphatically, “I’m going to get a room at the nearest inn and take a long, hot bath. Then I’m going to eat a decent meal and crawl into a real bed, and by the time I wake up we ought to be ready to sail again.”

It was Steve’s turn to laugh this time. “Nice and simple, I like that.”

“After being on a ship for two years, it doesn’t take much to please me. In fact, I’m probably—”

A voice came out of nowhere, carried over the heads of pedestrians: “Doctor Cho? Helen, is that you?”

Helen stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide.

Another voice: “And look, Rogers, too! What is this, old home week?”

Slowly Steve and Helen turned around. On the cobblestone street a few paces away stood two men, one taller than the other, both dark-haired and impeccably dressed, sporting flashy facial hair and equally handsome features.

“Stephen,” said Helen, addressing the taller man.

“Lord Stark,” said Steve, nodding respectfully to the shorter one.

Marquis Tony Stark, son of Duke Howard Stark, strode forward to greet them, followed closely by once-eminent surgeon, Dr Stephen Strange. “Please,” Tony snorted, “the formalities are killing me. You’ve been at sea too long.” He gave Steve’s hand an extra strong shake. “What brings you kids to Purawai? I mean, besides a ship, obviously.”  
  
“Resupplying, recouping,” said Steve, sighing. “Deciding our next course.”

“Sounds like a riot.”

“Oh, not at all, my crew are very well-behaved.”

“It’s an expression, Rogers.”

While Tony and Steve exchanged quips, Strange went over and clasped Helen’s slim, steady hand with his large, shaking one. “It’s good to see you again, Helen,” he said, sounding remarkably friendly. “How long has it been, four years?”

“Six, actually,” she corrected. “You graduated from medical school a year ahead of me, remember?”

“Ah. Right. Doesn’t time fly.”

There was an awkward pause.

“I like your new look,” said Helen suddenly, making a sweeping head-to-toe gesture. “The cloak really suits you. And the beard.”

“Thanks. I needed to make some changes.”

“For the better, I hope?”

“Only time will tell.”

Tony quite literally inserted himself into the middle of their conversation. “Hey, pair-a-docs, let’s go find a place to catch up. There’s this restaurant a few streets over I’ve been wanting to try since I got here, and it’ll take me _at least_ a half hour to explain this new project I’m working on, so we should probably make ourselves comfortable. Sound good? Okay, let’s go.”

Strange raised his eyebrows and shrugged one shoulder, and Helen knew exactly what he meant; once you became the focus of Tony Stark’s hurricane-force personality, there was little you could do except batten your hatches and ride it out.

Steve put a supportive—if not reassuring—hand on Helen’s back, and together with Strange, fell in step behind Tony, who walked backward down the street and continued to talk to them in an animated, breathless ramble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this is an AU/alternate world type of story of an ambiguous time period, I used the geography of our modern world as a template. The map below ought to help visualize the region in which much of this story takes place. The distance between certain locations and the time it takes to traverse said distances requires some suspension of disbelief. I can move mountains (at least figuratively), but I can't change physics. HJB
> 
>  


	8. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a scene involving a 15-year-old [Star]Bucky being sexually assaulted during a shady medical examination. If you're sensitive to material of this nature, please skip the second block.

This was not exactly how Steve planned to spend his first day on Purawai.

Tony was a good man—witty, gregarious, probably more sensitive that he liked to admit, and he was an undeniable genius when it came to mechanical science—but he could be obnoxiously indifferent when it came to other people’s schedules. Not that Steve wasn’t interested in what he had to say; on the contrary, he would have been delighted to sit down and discuss the latest innovations in modern science with him. Some other time.

But apparently whatever Tony had to say was too good to keep bottled up. A year from now, when Steve looked back on this conversation, he would understand exactly why.

“Communication,” said Tony seriously, setting down his glass of sherry. “That’s what’s going to change the world. I’m not talking about ink and paper, no, I mean the _rapid exchange_ of information, data on demand, critical knowledge supplied in real-time. Twenty years ago the fastest way to send a message was through the Royal Mail; now we’ve got telegraphs and we’re installing thousands of miles of cable across every continent, but the main issue is still _connecting those continents_. And thanks to Hydra, construction of trans-oceanic communications is pretty much at a standstill. Every time we start laying a new line, it gets sabotaged. Existing cables have a life span of about three days before they stop working, and it isn’t a technological malfunction—they’re being deliberately cut. We had divers who can confirm this.”

“Had?” Steve repeated.

“Yes, _had_ , you ever seen one of those shark-men in person, Rogers? I couldn’t _afford_ what it would pay to get my team back in the water again, and you know how obscenely wealthy I am.”

“Don’t forget modest.”

“Listen”—Tony plowed forward, ignoring Steve’s remark—“Hydra is slowly but surely taking the seas away from us, and if we don’t find some way to bring the battle to them, they’re going to _succeed_ and the industrial revolution will die here and now.” He stabbed his forefinger into the middle of the table. “Transcontinental communications will fail. Industries will collapse. Economies will suffer. Regional resources will be depleted. We’ll be geographically isolated again, thrown back into the dark ages. Knowledge, exploration, discovery, education, everything that makes us human will stagnate. If we can’t share ideas with one another, learn from each other, coexist and communicate freely with one another, the human race is doomed. This isn’t just socio-economic _ruin_ we’re facing, lady and gentlemen, it’s the end of our very _existence_.”

Steve and Helen gazed placidly at Tony. Strange upended his wineglass and drained it in a single gulp.

“Too dramatic?” said Tony, wincing.

“A little—”

“I need a refill.”

“You made a valid point, though,” said Steve helpfully. “So, what have you got?”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s your solution? You never pose a question without already having the answer, Tony. You must have something in the works. What is it?”

Tony looked slightly irritated by the fact he was so predictable—but like many of his emotions, it didn’t last long. “Wireless communication,” he stated. “Hydra keeps cutting our cables, so I removed cables from the equation. Using an arc transmitter to send electromagnetic waves at a specific frequency, I was—”

“Smaller words.”

“Invisible information sent through the air. Electrical devices that can send and receive signals from each other in a matter of seconds.”

Helen leaned forward, eyes wide. “You can _do_ that?”

“Already have. That’s why I’m here: to build a tower that will help relay these signals for thousands of miles, across oceans and whole continents. No more silence. No more waiting. You and I could be on opposite sides of the world and sending messages to one another as easily as if we were speaking face to face.”

Steve had to smile. “You truly are brilliant, Tony.”

“I know,” he sighed. “It’s a burden, but someone’s gotta bear it.”

“I’ve been bearing it ever since we left York,” Strange muttered.

“Oh, you two are traveling together?” said Steve.

“Unfortunately.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “So negative, Stephen. Lighten up, we’re in paradise.”

“No, _you’re_ in paradise. I’m just the transpor—sporting, uh, being a good sport.”

Helen frowned. It was unlike Strange to stumble over words. Tony cleared his throat uncomfortably and reached for his glass. “Okay, well, now you know why we’re here. What about you two? How’s the good fight going? Catch any bad guys lately?”

Steve and Helen must have made the same pained facial expression because Tony began to immediately backpedal.

“Wrong question? Sorry. How ‘bout them dolphins? They were really leaping out there this morning, weren’t they, Stephen?”

“Leaping. Yes. Lots of dolphins around here.”

“You know, I’ve heard that dolphins can detect electrical signals in the water—”

“Leave the animals alone, Stark.”

“—no, wait, hear me out, I think this could work, I mean, dolphins are pretty smart, right? So maybe if we could _teach them_ human telecode, we’d be able to strap transceivers onto their backs and—”

Helen put a hand to her face. Steve sighed heavily.

Maybe they should have just sailed past Purawai.

* * *

Before he decided to call himself Starbuck, before he was known as Soldier or even Little Brother, he was simply “the Delfin”—soft and baby-faced, with large eyes and round features that would in years to come be whittled away by Hydra’s harsh, often abusive training practices, transforming him into a slim, sharp instrument of destruction.

He hadn’t yet seen his second winter when he was taken from his parents and brought to one of Hydra’s nurseries, raised alongside infant Marmeni in what was essentially a military-run orphanage. He was the only Delfin at the nursery, and for good reason; Hydra had learned early on that of all the races of seafolk, the Delfi were the most difficult to control, the ones most likely to be obstinate and disobedient. Starbuck had much of his natural instincts beaten out of him by the time he was ten, and learned to be respectful and subservient to his superiors. His early years were spent reciting Hydra’s dogma until it became the bedrock of his subconscious, and undergoing a battery of tests, both mental and physical, to determine his placement in their hierarchy.

At age twelve he was moved to a youth training facility where students were cultivated into soldiers. It was a tough life, full of blood and bruises and pain, but the cadets learned long ago that suffering was the ultimate form of honoring Hydra, and they competed against one another with relentless zeal. The best of them would be inducted into the Skulls, Hydra’s elite military unit, the front line force in the war against human interference. It was the most coveted position in the entire corps. Every cadet dreamed of being a Skull.

Every cadet except Starbuck, that was. He simply went through the motions, did what he was told, and allowed his natural abilities to move him up through the ranks. He was fast, adaptable, had good reflexes, and his pain endurance was legendary. He accepted the accolades and promotions with nothing less than complete apathy, and ignored the envy and admiration of his fellow cadets. Nothing really mattered to him. He had no friends, no desire to be around his teammates. The drug-laced multi-minerals he consumed were the main cause of his indifference, and they numbed his natural desire to form bonds and be sociable. His personality was nonexistent, his attitude dull and blunt, and he lacked interest in anything that wasn’t related to his training. He was a perfect machine, just as Hydra had intended.

All that changed when he was fifteen, though.

The chemicals in the food were likely responsible for the delay in his sexual maturity, but none of Starbuck’s peers had ever talked about such matters. He had no idea this was even going to happen to him someday. He simply woke from a feverish, confusing dream one night and discovered that the pleasant feelings he’d been experiencing in recent months had gone from being internal to external.

The involuntary protraction of one’s penis through the genital opening was a completely normal part of Delfin development, especially at this age, but Starbuck didn’t know that. He was soundly terrified. Nowhere in his education had the subject of sexuality or reproduction been addressed; it had, in fact, been deliberately omitted. For all he knew, one of his internal organs had herniated and he was going to die if he didn’t get help. So he carefully tucked himself back in and, holding a hand tightly to his pelvis, located one of the night sentries to escort him to the infirmary.

The medisa on duty—a sturdy, middle-aged Octratsa—listened to Starbuck’s panicked account with an air of nonchalance, nodding occasionally and reassuring him that, yes, this was indeed a serious condition, but there were pills that would alleviate this particular problem and prevent it from happening again. “You did the right thing in coming here,” he said. “We’ll start you on a hormone regimen immediately, and soon you’ll be back to normal.” Starbuck was so relieved he could have sobbed.

The medisa made him lie back on a polished coral slab for a complete examination, to “assess the severity of the illness,” as he put it. Starbuck chewed his lip and fidgeted nervously as a tentacle explored the imperceptible slit in his tail, probing and prodding around it, before slipping inside. He whimpered at the alien sensation and tensed up. The medisa told him to breathe, relax, this would be over much quicker if he stayed calm. The tentacle went deeper, rubbing along the firm, padded walls of his sheath, searching for cysts or other abnormalities.

Starbuck, meanwhile, was a shivering, squirming wreck. Virgin muscle and tissue that had never been touched before were stretched wide and torn. Blood oozed into his sheath, unseen but wholly felt. Out of morbid curiosity, he tilted his head up for a moment and caught a glimpse of the dark blue tentacle pressing into his body; then another tentacle laid itself against his forehead and forced his head back down.

“It would be better if you didn’t watch,” the medisa told him quietly. “This part of your body is a bad place. One’s Shame, we call it. Without medication it would eventually consume your mind and turn you into a weak, gutless husk. Everything you’ve ever learned would be forgotten and your whole existence would be condensed into a single purpose: appeasing its desires. You’ve probably already experienced some of the early symptoms. They’re insidiously deceptive, making you think you feel good when really they’re just keeping you enslaved. Tell me, are you feeling anything now?”

Starbuck was: warmth, tension, an intense longing for something he couldn’t explain, like a coil tightening somewhere low in his belly. It kept building the longer the tentacle stayed inside him, twisting and writhing, causing his heart to pound and his muscles to go rigid. He opened his mouth to tell this to the medisa when suddenly he felt his sheath clamp down hard on the tentacle, and the coil in his belly sprang loose.

The world around him froze. Rational thought abandoned him, all external sensation ceasing. His back arched off the slab and he groaned loudly as his first orgasm seized him. The three smaller ones that followed shortly thereafter left him utterly weak and drained, just as the medisa had said.

Why then did he feel so relieved? Where was this radiant sense of peace and contentment coming from?

“A disturbingly strong reflex” was his verdict. Multiple reactions. Complete stimulation cycle with all the paralyzing aftereffects. Diagnosis: severe. Aggressive treatment recommended. Administer medication as soon as possible.

Starbuck was sent back to his nest with blood seeping from his slit and three powerful pills dissolving in his belly—the first of thousands. He curled himself into a sore, tender ball and, after a few restless hours, finally managed to fall asleep.

Eleven years later, it would begin all over again.

* * *

Like most of our heart’s desires, Starbuck’s began in his subconscious, with a dream.

He dreamt he was back on board the _Americus_ , warm and happy in Captain Rogers’s nest. Steve was there with him, lying on his side, stroking Starbuck’s hair and looking down at him tenderly. His smile was more beautiful than anything Starbuck had ever seen.

“I want to keep you,” Steve murmured to him. “May I?”

Starbuck tried to reply and, to his alarm, found that he couldn’t speak. His mouth moved but no sounds came out.

“May I, Starbuck?” Steve asked again gently.

 _Yes_ , he tried to say, grabbing hold of Steve’s collar. _Yes, yes, please, keep me, I_ —

Frustrated at his muteness and desperate to make his answer known, Starbuck buried his face against Steve’s chest and began to earnestly nuzzle him. The rest of his body followed suit, wriggling up against the man and moving with the same gentle, affectionate motions. This nonverbal response must have worked because he felt Steve’s arm, thick and heavy and strong, slip around his waist and pull him close, holding him tightly.

“Thank you,” he whispered, rubbing the small of Starbuck’s back. “You don’t know how happy this makes me.”

The rubbing continued, deepening to a relaxing massage, and Starbuck practically melted against the front of Steve’s body. A flood of familiar, long-forgotten sensations began to flow through him. Warmth and excitement. Eagerness, a need to satisfy the pleasant, growing ache in his tail—his Shame awakening. But he didn’t care. It felt good to be lying here with Steve, safe in his nest, feeling the heat of his body and the solid weight of his muscles as they pressed against him tighter, tighter, almost painfully—

Someone was gripping his shoulders, shaking him awake. Starbuck opened his eyes and the bright joy of his dream abruptly disappeared in the dim bluish glow that permeated all things at Base Psi. Rumlow’s face came into view. He seemed breathless, his brow creased with fear. Starbuck had never seen him afraid before. It chased away his remaining drowsiness and brought him sharply back to reality.

“Rumlow. What, what’re you doing—”

“You have to get out,” said Rumlow, his words coming fast and quiet. “Now. They’re coming for you. They found them, the pills you’ve been burying.”

“What? How?”

“When you went for your treatment a few hours ago. They came and searched your pod while you were gone. Zola suspected you had gone off your medication but didn’t know how you were doing it. Now he knows and he wants to move you to the prison ward. Said he’s gonna use quills instead of pills now. He sent me to collect you.”

Starbuck went pale. The prison ward. That’s where the worst of Hydra’s offenders were sent. It was located in the lowest interior level of the facility, a dark place where traitors were drugged, interrogated, and oftentimes mutilated in surgical procedures. Hydra made no secret of this—they wanted their subjects to be fully aware of the consequences that faced them should they defect. “For if an individual refuses to serve, then he will be put to other uses,” as it was often quoted. Few who went to the prison ward ever returned. Those who did were never the same again.

“You don’t have much time,” said Rumlow, darting to the pod’s entrance and peering out. “I’ll tell them you weren’t here. That oughta buy you a few minutes, but you’ve got to get outta here now.”

“They’ll lock down the base,” cried Starbuck, bolting from his nest. “I’ll never get out!”

“Don’t go _out_ , go _up_ ,” the Carcarin snapped, jabbing a finger toward the ceiling. “This base was a dormant volcano until they filled it in, but there are still a few vents that open to the top. You’re small enough to fit through them. Go deep into the mount and find a way up. Once you’re out, head straight for the surface and don’t look back.”

“But I, I’m not ready!”

“Damn it, neither am I!” Rumlow whirled on Starbuck in anger, but his face softened as he looked down at the Delfin’s wide blue eyes. He reached out and tenderly touched his cheek with his thick, clawed fingers. “I’m not ready to say goodbye to you forever. But I’d rather never see you again than watch you suffer and die here.”

Starbuck swallowed the lump in his throat. “Rumlow . . .”

“Go,” he said softly, pushing Starbuck into the passageway. “Find Zemo. Be free and happy. And if you ever see your Captain again . . .” He lowered his head. “You stay with him. He’ll protect you . . . like I would have done.”

Starbuck hovered outside the pod, staring at Rumlow with a heartbroken expression.

“What’re you waiting for, Delfin?” he snarled. “Go!”

But instead of leaving, Starbuck surged forward and threw his arms around Rumlow’s neck. “Thank you,” he said, pressing his cheek to the Carcarin’s.

Rumlow gave a short, cynical laugh, but put his arm around Starbuck and squeezed him briefly. “Shut up and swim,” he muttered.

After lingering a second longer, Starbuck finally tore himself away and pelted down the corridor, tail beating frantically. He was gone in a flash of gray and blue.

Rumlow clenched his teeth together, staring after him even though there was nothing more to see. A grief-stricken snarl rose from his chest and he lashed out, slamming his fist into the wall. The hard, translucent material cracked under the force of his blow, too solid to break. He lowered his head and did something he hadn’t done in over thirty years, since he was very young and alone.

He wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an illustration from the "Not a monster" scene between Rumlow and [Star]Bucky from the previous chapter.
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	9. Escape from Hydra

Starbuck had spent enough of his life at Base Psi to be able to find his way around; however, he had little knowledge of the facility’s interior structure and it wasn’t long before he was lost in the labyrinth of distressingly dark, empty tunnels. Despite the urgency of his situation, he was forced to slow down, blindly feeling his way along the rocky walls and bumping his head into the low ceiling. Occasionally he would come across patches of glowing green moss, but the thin light they produced could hardly be considered helpful. Even if Starbuck could see his surroundings he still wouldn’t know where to go.

But he pressed on, guided by hope and gut instinct alone, the latter of which was slowly beginning to return to its natural state. Starbuck didn’t know that in times long ago his people had been some of the greatest navigators in the ocean. Their sense of direction was keen, their bodies in perfect syncopation with the rhythms of the earth, the moon, the tides. Hydra’s drugs had suppressed these abilities long enough that Starbuck was unaware of just how capable he was—or could be. Had he been completely clear of the poisons polluting his body, he would have been able to detect all 32 points of the compass rose even if he were blind, deaf, and completely disoriented. Right now he could only discern up from down, but that was enough for him to find his way to the vents.

Though inactive, the volcanic seamount out of which Base Psi was carved was still prone to geothermic disturbances, and scalding cocktails of water and gases regularly blasted up through rocky shafts in the mountain’s center. The architects had made certain to leave enough of these vents open to keep pressure from building within the base, thus protecting it from instability and erosion. Holes were strategically drilled into the vents to allow heat to disperse, effectively warming the entire facility and making it a more hospitable environment for cold-sensitive Marmeni.

Rather ironic, considering the medical atrocities that were committed here.

Starbuck had followed the telltale warmth, one hand lightly trailing along the wall as he swam, until suddenly his hand was touching nothing. He leaned in, searching for the wall, until he realized that this was a bleed-off hole for one of the vents. Overjoyed at his luck, he thrust his upper body inside and looked upward, hoping to see just how far the shaft went. He promptly knocked his head into the opposite wall and saw nothing but stars; apparently this vent was quite narrow.

 _But I should be able to fit_ , he thought, squinting his eyes and staring up into the blackness. _If it doesn’t get any narrower._

There was no way to tell. It was simply too dark to see, and he couldn’t afford to waste time searching for another, bigger vent. How long had it been since Rumlow had pushed him out of his pod? Twenty, thirty minutes? Surely the base had mobilized by now, staff combing the corridors and soldiers assembling search parties. He would have to take his chances.

Out of nowhere, Steve’s voice entered his mind: _You can spend the rest of your life safe, or you can spend the rest of your life free. It’s up to you._

Starbuck set his jaw determinedly. _Free_ , he thought. _Because there’s no such thing as perfectly safe. Life itself is a hazard, so let’s be brave. Let’s be bold, like Captain Rogers._

With a burst of courage surging through his heart, Starbuck entered the pitch black vent and began to swim upward. The walls of the shaft were craggy and sharp, covered in slime and algae that fed on the hot, nutrient-dense outflow. There was a pervasive heat to the rock that never seemed to dissipate, reminding Starbuck of the danger lurking far below. He quickly batted the thought from his mind, focusing on moving as fast as he could in these tight quarters. He wasn’t so much swimming as he was slithering, his tail’s full range of motion hampered by the closeness of the vent. Every now and then a jagged outcrop would force him to twist and turn until he found a way to wriggle past it, but for the most part the passage maintained a constant width.

He was feeling quite pleased with his progress (and more than just a little relieved) when a low, almost subsonic rumble caused him to stop. The walls of the shaft began to vibrate and a few bubbles rushed up from the deep, crawling across Starbuck’s skin as they fled their way toward the surface.

“Oh no,” he murmured softly.

There came another rumble, louder and longer, and that was all the encouragement he needed—he shot up through the vent like a frightened snake, paying no mind to the rocks that collided with his outstretched hands and scraped dull lines down his arms and body. He had about one or two minutes before a geyser of boiling water filled the shaft, and if he hadn’t swum clear of it by then . . .

He tried not to think about it, but the imagination is most powerful—and creative—when we’re afraid. Visions of blistered, peeling flesh seemed merciful compared to the idea that, should the vent suddenly become too narrow to swim through, the pressure of the erupting water would force him up and out in a gutty red column of shattered bone and shredded meat.

Starbuck didn’t realize he was laughing until the sound reached his own ears. It had a high, hysterical quality, full of panic and desperation, and it gradually became lost in the growing thunder below him. He scrambled up the shaft with renewed energy, pulling himself through crags and around protrusions, fighting and flailing. Somewhere in the dim recesses of his fear-frenzied mind, he realized that his worst nightmare was coming true.

The vent was getting narrower.

Cold, sour dread poured into him and he increased his speed, tearing up through the vent haphazardly, sharp edges of rock cutting into the widest parts of his body—his shoulders, his hips—and clawing deep, bruising scratches into his flesh. He pressed forward, squeezing and scrunching himself into as narrow a profile as he could, flattening his chest against the walls of the shaft, trying to control his breathing as his heart slammed the blood through his veins.

And then he saw it. About twelve feet above him, the dark blue glow of open water. Freedom. And just in time; a surge of hot water bloomed up from the depths of the shaft, followed by a loud, ominous rumble.

Calling upon the strength of every muscle in his body, Starbuck squirmed toward the opening, aided by the vent’s slimy walls, his eyes fixed on that blessed blue disk above him.

Perhaps if he had been more focused on his course instead of his destination, he would have seen the oddly-angled rock jutting from the wall before it was too late. Starbuck’s left bicep slammed into it, and his momentum carried him forward until the agonizing pressure on his socket forced him to stop.

He was stuck firmly at the shoulders, his arms pinned to his sides, with less than eight feet between himself and the open sea.

A scream of frustration left his mouth, bubbles billowing past his cheeks. His tail slapped uselessly against the shaft’s walls as he tried to move himself first forward, then backward. It was no use. He had pinned himself perfectly, and the water below him was growing hotter, hotter . . .

“It will not end like this,” Starbuck snarled, the cords standing out in his neck as he strained toward the opening. Pain sliced through his shoulder, turning the world red and black and white. He moved half an inch, his right shoulder sliding up more easily thanks to the slick algae on the wall. “Not like this. Not like this . . . !”

And suddenly Zola was in his head, smiling that queer little smile of his, cooing with praise. _Such a high tolerance of pain you still have! I wish all of my subjects had undergone stress management as early as you . . ._

Subjects. Assets. Soldiers. That’s all the Marmeni were to Hydra. Minds to be controlled, bodies to be poisoned and played with. Murder the traitors, turn their children into weapons. Kill everyone who disagreed. And the legacy of death would continue unless Starbuck was able to get free.

Something else besides fear began to flow through his veins then: it was rage. Deep, black, and completely justified.

The walls of the shaft began to quake. An eruption was imminent. Starbuck sucked in a breath and released it, emptying his lungs and compressing his body as much as he possibly could. He stretched forward, his groan turning to a roar as tendons creaked and bones shifted under the pressure. He moved an inch. Two inches—

There was a sickening pop in his left shoulder as the ball left its socket, but he continued to move. The sharpest point of the rock opened a deep laceration on his bicep, completely bisecting the mark of Hydra. It went deep, through skin and fat and muscle, almost to the bone. Blood poured out in an angry red cloud and swirled around his head.

The pain would have taken the senses of an average Delfin, but Starbuck was anything but average.

With one final thrust of his tail, he slipped free of the rock pinning him and streaked up through the shaft like a bullet, bursting out into the open seconds before the vent belched forth a lethal plume of scalding, bubbling water. Starbuck didn’t stop, didn’t slow. He rushed up into the ocean’s yawning black leagues, flukes beating and blood streaming from his wounded shoulder.

Below him, the eerie glow of Base Psi was slowly swallowed by darkness.

* * *

The night was calm and quiet. The moon shined her ivory light onto the ocean waves, the breeze playing lazily across the water. The peace was abruptly shattered by a Delfin, who broke the surface and completely cleared it by three feet. His body arced through the air, flashing silver and blue in the moonlight, before crashing into the water once more.

Starbuck bobbed back up a second later, sputtering and gagging. He gave a watery cough, then reflexively vomited the seawater from his lungs. Most Marmeni knew to evacuate their respiratory system before breaching, but standard surfacing protocol had been the farthest thing from Starbuck’s mind at the time.

He rolled onto his back and floated for a while, hacking and gasping, sucking down gulps of the sweet, balmy air. When he finally steadied his breathing, he found himself blinking up at a broad ribbon of stars stretching from one horizon to the next. Millions and millions of winking white gems, pearls of light so brilliant that they floated in a sea all their own, far far away. The humans had a name for it, some sort of road or pathway. Whatever they called it, it was the most beautiful thing to Starbuck right now, and he lay there staring at it with wonder.

The panic and adrenaline coursing through his body eventually faded, leaving in its wake a sore, aching void that began to fill with worry. He reached over and gingerly inspected his left shoulder. There was something wrong with the joint, he recognized that, but he didn’t know exactly what or how to fix it. The cut on his bicep was his primary concern. It was close to six inches long, four of those being distressingly, nauseously deep. Blackish-red blood oozed from his torn flesh, which burned in the salty water and stung in the air—parts of him that were never meant to touch such elements. Grimacing, Starbuck used his right hand to clamp the wound shut, applying as much pressure as he dared.

He looked around himself. Miles of water in all directions. Silent but for the lapping waves. No land. No ships. No medisi. Nothing with which to bind his wounds. No idea which way was east or west. No food. Nobody.

Nothing.

For the first time in his life, Starbuck was completely on his own.

A whimper escaped his lips. He turned, looking for a sign of something, _anything_ —a current, an animal, a piece of flotsam. There was only the sea, dark, vast, and lonely. He sank into the waves up to his chin, like a fearful child huddling beneath his blanket. He felt so small and exposed, so helpless. He was injured and hungry and lost in the middle of this watery waste, with no shelter or means of protecting himself.

He didn’t realize he was moaning under his breath until his voice cracked. He quieted himself, ashamed of his fear. If his training instructors could have seen him now, they would have beaten him into silence—and probably a little longer, just out of principle. _Weakness has no place in Hydra’s forces_ , they often said. _You aren’t civilians anymore, you are soldiers! And soldiers do not feel pain. They do not know fear. They are superior!_

Nonsense, thought Starbuck bitterly. He was one of their best, and look at him now, quivering and crying in the middle of the ocean like an orphaned seal pup. Hydra’s strength was nothing but a drug-induced illusion. Their soldiers weren’t superior—they were intoxicated. Take that away from them and they were just normal Marmeni . . . or they would have been, if Hydra never existed.

Starbuck turned his face toward the stars. “What do I do?” he asked softly, not knowing if he was talking to himself or to some mysterious force that controlled the universe. The breeze picked up, cooling the wet skin of his face and making the water seem warm by comparison.

 _Keep going_ , he thought.

“But where? I don’t know how . . .”

_Keep going._

He nervously chewed his bottom lip.

_Anywhere. You’re still alive. You’re not done yet. Keep going._

“Alright.” Starbuck nodded to himself, bolstering his courage. “Alright, I’m going. I’m going.”

Still clutching his left shoulder, he flicked his scratched, bloodied tail and began to swim.

* * *

“Can’t sleep?”

Steve started a little and looked up from his sketchbook. Tony Stark stood in the parlor doorway with a concerned look on his face, still wearing his day clothes. He also wore a grease-stained bib apron and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows; apparently he’d been tinkering with something in the shed out back.

“Looks like I’m not the only one,” Steve observed.

“Nah, that’s just me. I’m only part human, mostly raccoon.” Tony sauntered over to the chaise where Steve was lounging and looked down at the notebook. “Ooh, handsome fella. Who is he?”

“No one you’d know.”

“Ah.” Tony nodded to himself and folded his arms over his chest. “The latest beau in the legendary list of Rogers’s Romancecapades. Gotcha. Well, if things don’t work out between you two, can I get his address?”

“Trust me, Tony, he’s not your type.”

“Probably. But hey, can’t blame a guy for tryin.” He dropped himself onto the chaise while Steve rolled his eyes. “Speaking of which, you gonna let me stick my machine in that gorgeous craft of yours tomorrow?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“Aw, c’mon, you’ll like it. I promise.” Tony’s eyes twinkled wickedly. “I’ll be real gentle. Once you’ve got it in, believe me, you won’t want me to take it out.”

“We _are_ still talking about you installing one of those wireless communicators in my ship, right?”

“Of course!” cried Tony, pretending to be scandalized. “Good Lord, man, what did you think we were talking about? You sailors and your filthy minds, honestly.”

Steve chuckled despite himself and folded his notebook closed.

“But seriously,” Tony continued, “you _want_ this machine, my friend. I’ve already installed them in nine SAINT ships and Fury plans to make them standard throughout the fleet by next year. The more communicators we’ve got on the seas, the larger our network. This is your chance to be _avant garde_ for once. People who wait for the future to come to them just make me sad.”

“Your father used to say that a lot.”

“Yeah, well . . . I’m allowed to agree with him once every twenty years.” Tony sighed through his nose and began to bounce his leg restlessly. These anxious reactions didn’t go unnoticed.

“I’m still sorry about what happened to Howard,” said Steve gently. “His loss was . . .” He trailed off, unable to think of an adequate word.

“Ah.” Tony waved his hand. “Wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry that Erskine’s research was lost before the project was completed. That woulda been something, huh? The inimitable Steve Rogers, SAINT’s very own water-breathing super soldier.”

Steve smirked and bashfully ducked his head. “Well, I’m grateful I got this much,” he said, looking down at his body. Sometimes it still felt so new to him, even though Project Rebirth had been terminated over twelve years ago. “At least I can still fight, even if it’s only above the waves.”

A wide, omniscient grin suddenly spread across Tony’s face.

Steve was instantly suspicious. “What are you scheming _now_ , Stark?”

“Nothing! Jeez, can’t a man show a little happiness when he hears such heart-warming, patriotic—”

“Any man but you, yes.”

“Okay, I see how it is—”

“You’re up to something, Tony. What is it?”

“This is the thanks I get for inviting you to my home and showing you how to—”

“You’re renting this place.”

“—shuttup, how to operate a wireless communicator, and even offer to install one in your ship _for free_ —”

“You’re contracted by the government, you’re _supposed_ to do that.”

“—and you accuse me of being ‘up to something’! Well, sir, you are exactly correct, but you won’t get any information outta _me_ , oh-ho no! I _was_ gonna let you in on a little secret I’ve been keeping, but since you wanna be a presumptuous punk about it, you can just sit there and stew in your own curiosity. See if I care.”

“The joke’s on you, Tony. I’m not nearly as curious as you.”

“You got that right; I _am_ pretty weird.”

Steve snorted.

“So,” said Tony, springing to his feet, “what's a good time for you tomorrow?”

“You’re never gonna quit, are you?”

“Nope.”

Steve let out a groan and slumped back against the chaise.

“It’s either now or later, Rogers. Might as well let the Master himself do it instead of some bumbling technician over in York next year.”

“Forgive me if I’m not exactly thrilled with the idea of Admiral Fury being able to contact me whenever he wants.”

Tony jammed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “One tiny con. Lots of pros. C’mon, we’ll make a day of it. You, me, Clint, Sam—you know I haven’t seen those guys in ages—Helen and Strange can talk about doctory things, it’ll be fun.”

“I’ve still gotta make sure my ship—”

“I know, I know, you can take care of whatever needs taking care of, get that outta the way first, and then we’ll get together and set up that communicator. Sound good?”

Steve sighed heavily and finally relented. What other choice did he have? “Alright. Tomorrow afternoon. I should have everything wrapped up by then.”

Tony beamed. “You’re one step closer to the present, Rogers,” he declared proudly. “I’ll have you building fires and using wheels in no time!”


	10. Into the Blue

The house Tony was renting on Purawai was the epitome of South Seas architecture: high ceilings, whitewashed walls, lots of windows, and an open floor plan to take advantage of the cool ocean breezes. It would have been considered terribly rustic for the son of a duke—no electricity, no indoor plumbing, only a stubborn hand-pump in the kitchen—but Tony never complained about his accommodations. He was, as he’d told Steve yesterday, growing rather attached to the place. Sure, it was a little inconvenient not having hot water, but really, in a tropical climate like this, who needed it? The water coming out of the well was warm enough.

The house itself was a single-storey structure that stood on stilts just south of Oyster Cove, less than a hundred yards from the water. Steve could see the _Americus_ from the front porch, her silhouette of masts and rigging standing black against the pink sky of early dawn. He sat on the steps and sipped his coffee, wondering why he was so edgy and tense. He had slept well enough, what little he had gotten. But this . . .

It was the same way he felt when a bad storm was brewing, even though there was no sign of foul weather on the horizon. Steve’s feelings seldom went unjustified, however; his forecasts were so accurate that it earned him the nickname “human barometer” among his officers. He wondered if that was a side effect of the serum he was given twelve years ago or simply his own intrinsic connection to the sea. He preferred to believe the latter. Somehow it made him feel like less of a failed experiment and more of a sailor.

Footsteps sounded from within the house, moving toward the porch. Judging by the stride, it was Tony. Sure enough:

“Two years into a four-year voyage,” Tony declared, walking over to where Steve sat, “and all you can do when you get to land is stare at the sea like a homesick fish.”

“Guess it’s just in my blood.”

Tony blinked. “That’s either the biggest understatement or the best joke you’ve ever made.”

“Must be the first one ‘cause I’m not exactly in a laughing mood right now.”

Tony finished buttoning his burgundy waistcoat and peered down at his friend. The playful lilt of his voice was gone when he spoke. “What’s wrong.”

“I don’t know. I’m just”—Steve sighed forcefully—“I just feel strange today. Like something bad is going to happen and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

“A feeling of dread? Sense of impending doom? Have you ever felt this before?”

Steve shook his head. If he were being completely honest with himself, he hadn’t felt right since the day he said goodbye to a blue-eyed Delfin with a lovely smile. But he couldn’t tell Tony that. Not without diving into a subject he had no interest in discussing right now.

He swept the thought from his mind, finished the rest of his coffee in a single gulp, and slowly rose to his feet. “I better get moving. Sam is probably wondering what happened to me.”

Tony looked a little dejected. “Sure you’re okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Steve, smiling anemically.

“Alright. If you say so . . . Hey, don’t forget our appointment this afternoon.”

“Right. The adulteration of my poor, beautiful ship. Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“One little aerial and a transceiver does not an adulteration make, Rogers. Trust me, you won’t even know it’s there.”

“Until Admiral Fury finds out about it, right?”

Tony spread his arms and shrugged sympathetically. “Can’t help you with that one, Cap.”

Steve nodded, gave Tony’s shoulder an amicable pat, then walked into the house to collect his things.

“Oh yeah,” Tony called after him, “and if you see Helen before me, tell her to give me back my doctor! He never came home after walking her to the inn last night, so he probably shacked up with her just to avoid me. I can’t imagine why!”

Steve had to chuckle. “Neither can I, Tony,” he said, “neither can I.”

* * *

The sun rose in a cloudless, blood-colored sky, shedding beams of searing light onto the body floating aimlessly in the ocean. Starbuck let out a groan and stirred, rolling over and dipping his face into the cool water. His skin, dry and tight from hours in the air, greedily soaked up the moisture. He exhaled, emptying his lungs of air, and took a few refreshing gulps of seawater. It soothed his thirsty lungs. He rolled back over and blearily began to assess himself and his situation.

He was, first and foremost, extremely tired. What little sleep he had gotten had been poor, brief, and unintentional. His body ached all over. The gash in his throbbing shoulder still leaked blood. He was surprised that no scavenging fish had been drawn by the scent and come to nibble on him. He would have tried to catch and eat them if he could; his stomach burned and cramped with emptiness, and there were no signs of life anywhere.

In fact, little had changed about his surroundings since he had broken the surface last night. The ocean stretched out in a boundless blue plain all around him, and except for the slapping waves and the wind in his ears, everything was quiet.

Starbuck didn’t know it, but he was in what humans called the pelagic zone, the uppermost part of the deep, open ocean. This region is full of sunlight and very little else, earning it the nickname “the marine desert”. The abundance of life that flourished in reefs and shallower waters was absent. Only whales and other large animals dared to traverse these wild, empty expanses. There would be no food for a Delfin here.

With a weary sigh Starbuck flexed his tail—there came a few satisfying pops—and began to swim again. As eager as he was to get somewhere, he knew his strength was failing and it would be better to maintain a slow, steady jog instead of an anxiety-fueled sprint. He didn’t want to rest until he had found something worth stopping for—preferably something edible. His last meal at Base Psi had left him long ago, and he hadn’t exactly been eating all that well for the past two weeks. His muscles were weak and tired, slow to respond, his mind a muddy blur with only one sharp focal point: surviving.

Which direction was this? He was fairly certain he was heading west. West was where he would find Zemo, if Zemo could still be found. What had Rumlow told him? A place called Imeria, or Imerine. It was on the other side of the big southern continent. Perhaps he would be better off to travel first south, then west. Finding the land would give him a point from which he could continue his quest, and surely there would be places where he could rest for a few days and recover his strength—reefs, sandbars, kelp beds. Yes, that sounded like a much better plan. South it was, then.

Starbuck poked his head above the waves and studied the sky for a few moments, shading his eyes with his right hand. Alright. If the rising sun was behind him, that meant he was facing west, so to go south he’d have to turn left ninety degrees . . .

Once he got his bearings he dropped beneath the surface—not too deep, just enough to stay cool while keeping an eye on the sun’s position—and continued his steady pace. Lines of reflected light danced across his body from above while below him the sapphire depths of the open ocean reached down and down, uninterrupted and uninhabited. For some inexplicable reason, it made Starbuck sad.

Maybe this was the loneliness that Rumlow had mentioned. _I’ve lived out there, Little Brother. I’ve been sick and cold and hungry, and lonelier than you could ever imagine._

Starbuck understood how someone could slide into despair in an empty blue void like this. It was undeniably depressing, and the longer he swam, the heavier his heart became. How infinitely worse it must have been for a Carcarin, a race seldom welcomed by other Marmeni, especially rogues like Rumlow. To be rejected and run off every time he tried to make a home for himself, to have been—what were his words?—“scorned because my fins aren’t flat like yours, being feared and hated simply for being one of the shark people”. No wonder Rumlow was so attached to Hydra. They must have seemed like heroes to him after so many years of being an outcast.

But it was a lie, thought Starbuck morosely. Hydra were not heroes, and they certainly weren’t family. They were murderers, tyrants, and sadists. And as badly as the laceration in his shoulder hurt, Starbuck was glad that it went through his tattoo. He would have found some way to get that awful mark off of his body, even if he had to cut through his own flesh. He wanted nothing to do with Hydra anymore. As far as he was concerned, he was their enemy.

Just like Steve Rogers.

Starbuck’s heart quickened a little at the thought of he and Steve being on the same side, allies now instead of enemies. A fierce longing suddenly flooded into him, more overpowering than his empty stomach and injured body.

He wanted to see Steve again, yes, but it was more than just that; he wanted to hear his voice and see him smile, feel Steve pick him up and hold him, talk to him, just be _near_ him. There was comfort and safety in Steve’s presence, so much about the man that felt good and _was_ good—a wholesomeness that satisfied something in Starbuck, something unknown and yearning for completion.

Gradually the realization sank in that Steve had been the first person who had ever treated him as something other than a subordinate or fellow soldier. Steve had looked at Starbuck with wonder in his eyes, as if he were something—no, some _one_ —rare and valuable. There was reverence and respect in his demeanor ( _May I?_ ) and compassion ( _I don’t care whose side you’re on, I’m going to treat your wounds and let you go because it’s the decent thing to do_ ).

Starbuck’s tail beat slower as he became lost in his thoughts.

Steve thought he was special. Steve thought he was nice. Steve had been sad to see him go and had embraced him—a sign of deep affection, unless Starbuck was greatly mistaken. And he didn’t think he was. Not with the fervent way Steve had stared into his eyes and stroked his hair. The memory of those last moments on the gundeck were so rich that he could practically smell Steve again, his clothes and his skin and his hair.

Tears welled up behind the clear membranes that protected Starbuck’s eyes, and when he blinked, the salty moisture squeezed out, blending invisibly with the surrounding water. Two tiny drops in an infinite sea.

_And if you ever see your Captain again . . ._

“I’ll stay with him,” Starbuck promised, his voice a soft croak. “I’ll keep him. Just like he’ll keep me.”

He swished his tail and sped up, disappearing into the blue.

* * *

Mile after mile after mile. Empty water, long hours that stretched into the same oblivion through which he swam, the only evidence of time’s passage being the sun’s journey across the sky. In a way Starbuck felt they were connected, he and the sun. They were both travelers moving slowly through a vast world of blue—one in the sky, one in the sea, each staring back at the other like two mirrors.

It was tedious. It was tiring. But Starbuck had no choice but to keep swimming.

By midday it became apparent he was getting close to somewhere. He heard the far-off cry of a gull and saw a few fish skittering in and out of the depths below him. Nothing worth chasing, though. Too fast and too few. He had to ration his remaining energy. If he were to exhaust himself out here, not even rest would be able to save him.

Rumlow’s acidic words kept coming back to haunt him. _You wouldn’t last long enough to starve to death_.

Starbuck swallowed the knot in his throat and clenched his jaw. He would prove him wrong. He was determined not only to make it, but to thrive. To be happy. And then come back and free everyone who thought that Hydra’s way was the only way. If one naïve, inexperienced Delfin could escape their clutches and learn to live on his own, so could everyone else. The thought strengthened Starbuck’s heart and kept him moving despite the pain radiating through his body.

It wasn’t much later when he spied something up ahead in the distance, a large mass moving just beneath the surface. He dived down and swam closer for a better look, his curiosity overpowering his fear.  Whatever it was, it moved like nothing he had ever seen before—undulating and amoebic in its shape, at one moment dark, then shimmering silver the next. It seemed to have no interest in him. Nevertheless, he approached it cautiously.

Only when he got close enough did Starbuck see that it wasn’t a single huge creature, but many small ones: a shoal of fish, hundreds upon hundreds of them, swirling and spinning together in a tightly-packed group. Starbuck’s mouth fell open and he stared, mesmerized. This was something he had never seen before, and he was amazed at its beauty.

But his admiration gradually dissolved into hunger, the sharp pangs in his stomach reminding him of what his body desperately needed. Well, there was plenty of food to be had right here. The fish were all a good size and conveniently bunched together, so it would be easy to pick off a few. Two or three should be enough.

However, when Starbuck dove into the shoal, the fish parted like a cloud and reformed behind him, churning in agitation. He turned around and dived into them again, faster this time, but the shoal’s reaction was too swift. At the first flick of his tail, the fish on the fringes pushed against the ones on the inside, who in turn plowed into their neighbors, starting a chain reaction that was lightning fast—little more than a blink of an eye. And thus the joust began.

Again and again Starbuck charged the shoal, each time trying a different angle. Through, around, from above, from below, all to no avail. The fish evaded him easily, outmaneuvering the tired, wounded Delfin.

Finally, after half an hour of continuous failures, Starbuck bought himself to a halt. He hovered in the water, breathing heavily, and watched the shoal move away from him. It was difficult to tell which hurt more: his body or his spirit. He had wasted so much precious energy, and had nothing to show for it. His situation was dire now. If only he—

Out of the blue, a dark shape flew into the shoal, cutting it in half. Another shape came from somewhere off Starbuck’s left, chasing down one of the halves and dividing it as the first had done. From the right, another did the same. Another appeared, and another—five in all, swimming through the fish and breaking them into smaller groups, picking off the stragglers.

They were blue sharks, and they were hunting in a pack.

Starbuck stared in wonder, observing the efficiency at which they worked, one or two cutting through the shoal while the others chased any fish unlucky enough to be separated from the group. They pounced on them with lightning-fast movements, gulping down one after the other. They made it look so easy. Starbuck felt ashamed of himself.

_Maybe they’ll let me join them_ , he thought, timidly swimming toward the action. _Maybe they won’t mind if I scavenge a fish or two. There’s enough for all of us . . ._

The sharks, busy in their hunting, ignored Starbuck as he made his way into the middle of the fray. He watched and waited for one of the splinter shoals to be driven within arm’s reach. He remained as motionless as he could, then darted out as the river of fish barreled past him. He managed to wrap his fingers around one, but with only one hand, it easily slipped from his grip and bolted away. He cursed like a Carcarin.

Then, to add injury to insult, another stream of fish came up from behind and pounded right into him, beating him with their sharp tails as they fled. Seconds later the pursuing shark thudded into Starbuck’s wounded shoulder, shook off the collision, and resumed its chase.

Starbuck, however, didn’t recover as quickly; he cradled his smarting arm and screamed through gritted teeth until the worst of the pain had faded. He opened his eyes and discovered that the gash in his shoulder was bleeding again. Anger and despair the likes of which he had never experienced crashed down on him like a wave.

“Why can’t I do anything right,” he sniveled, blinking away his tears. “Why am I such a failure?”

The water in front of him swished, and he raised his head to see one of the sharks swimming nearby, studying him with its large, round eyes. It was a stupid-looking thing, thought Starbuck disdainfully. With its mouth hanging open and its long, protruding snout, it had the appearance of a simple-minded, perpetually clueless Marmen. And yet this idiotic fish was endowed with the instinct and capacity to survive out here, to hunt and kill and eat, whereas Starbuck . . .

Another shark joined the first and began to swim around him, investigating this strange creature. Starbuck turned away. He had had enough of sharks for one day. The last thing he wanted was another reminder of how woefully inept he—

A third shark came up from below, bumping him gently with its snout before sliding away. Starbuck lashed out at it with his tail, slapping it with the tips of his flukes.

“Go on!” he snapped. “Leave me alone, you—you dumb squids!” They were probably laughing at him, taunting and jeering in their own sharky . . .

A question that had been worrying at the edges of Starbuck’s consciousness suddenly materialized in his mind, and it sent rivulets of ice water down his spine:

_Where were the fish?_

He turned left. And left again. All the way around.

The fish were gone. Only the sharks remained, circling him.

Terror rose in Starbuck’s heart as he looked over at the cloudy ribbon of blood swirling from the wound on his shoulder.

He was alone. He was bleeding. He was defenseless. He was weak and slow, outnumbered five-to-one. Blue sharks were a large species, and when hunting together in a pack like this, they could easily tear apart a much bigger, healthier animal. And they were getting closer.

Starbuck began to swim slowly, carefully away. The sharks followed, orbiting him like moths around a flame, drawn by the scent of blood and torn flesh. The tiny pores on their faces picked up the electrical impulses of his beating heart, whose rhythm was increasing.

The prey was afraid.

The sharks grew bolder, moving in close. Starbuck feebly swatted them away with his tail and his right arm, but that did nothing to deter them. In fact, all it did was prove to them that their target was in poor condition and unable to inflict any real damage to them. They became belligerent, closing in tightly and taking turns thumping into Starbuck’s body, testing his strength, inviting him to do his worst.

Starbuck threw one-armed punches, but they landed weakly and the sharks’ scales cut the skin of his fist. Even his tail, which was almost pure muscle, seemed to have no effect when he struck them. It only seemed to excite them.

Panic began to bloom in his chest. He tried swimming deeper, but they followed him and blocked his path. One shark suddenly charged him with its mouth open, and Starbuck felt the scrape of sharp teeth.

He was trapped. They were going to tear him apart and eat him one chunk at a time. He was nothing but meat to them. Everything that made Starbuck who he was—his memories and his emotions, his thoughts and his dreams—all of that was about to disappear down the gullets of five sharks, and no one would ever know. That would be the end of him.

Rumlow had been right. If only he had—

Starbuck, his attention focused on driving away the shark in front of him, failed to see the other come up on his left.

The teeth were so sharp that he didn’t feel them as they sank into his upper arm; only when the shark clamped down did he realize what was happening.

“ _No_!” he screamed. His right fist connected with the shark’s eye, but the beast didn’t let go. It jerked him to the side and began to thrash angrily back and forth, his arm still caught in its jaws.

Starbuck was tossed to and fro like a rag, bolts of pain ripping through his shoulder until, in an ironic turn of events, the violent motions caused the dislocated joint to pop back into place. But Starbuck was barely conscious of this—all he was thinking about was getting his arm out of the shark’s mouth.

He threw another punch and another, screaming wordlessly in fear and fury. The four other sharks surged around him, nipping at his flukes and diving at his head. Only when his fist smashed into the shark’s gills did it finally release him, shaking its teeth free of his flesh.

A cloud of dark red blood rose from Starbuck’s arm, revealing the severity of his wound. He didn’t have time to dwell on it for long; another shark came at him and bit him just below his right hip. It hung on tenaciously and began to thrash, causing its teeth to tear into Starbuck’s tail.

“Get _off_ me!” he shouted, beating the bullet-shaped head with both fists. The shark held on.

The one that had bitten his arm came back and tried again, this time catching Starbuck’s left elbow. He felt something crack in his forearm— _bones, I’m being broken, help_ —and suddenly there were teeth piercing his flukes as a third shark joined its mates.

Three powerful animals now tugged at his body, wrenching and pulling in opposite directions, fighting over him like a piece of meat. Starbuck howled and twisted in their jaws, determined to fight until the last, until he—

A high-pitched squeal suddenly cut through the water, and a gray body pounded into the shark chewing at Starbuck’s hip, causing it to release its hold. Another gray creature zoomed out of the blue, clicking and clacking furiously, followed by six more like it.

Dolphins.

They slammed into the sharks, filling the water around them with squeals and trills as they assaulted the predators with their beaks. The two remaining sharks released Starbuck but were unwilling to abandon their easy meal just yet, choosing instead to be buffeted and harassed by the newcomers.

The dolphins were relentless, hammering down onto the sharks as if they truly enjoyed it, slapping them with their tails and head-butting them until they rolled like barrels.

Starbuck watched the fight with his mouth open, unable to believe his own eyes. _Dolphins_. The very animals with whom his people shared such close biological ties, _here_ , helping him as if he were one of their own. He had seen these creatures only once or twice, usually during missions and journeys between bases. But to see them up close like this, fighting off five large sharks, it was . . .

Beautiful. There was no other word for it.

The sharks soon decided they had had enough—no prey was worth this much trouble. They turned and fled, their bodies blending in with the blue of the distant water until they disappeared from sight.

The dolphins’ angry noises gradually gave way to soft chirps and whistles as they returned from their chase and swam around Starbuck, gazing at him with their friendly faces. One in particular seemed concerned by the blood pouring from his left arm; it chattered on in its own language and bobbed its head at him.

“You saved me,” said Starbuck quietly, looking at each of them. “Thank you. All of you.”

His voice had an immediate effect on them. They swam up to him without hesitation and began to gently nuzzle him, as if checking his body for other injuries. It was incredibly soothing, especially after such a horrific, violent ordeal.

And violent it was. He surveyed the damage that had been inflicted upon him: a half-circle of red punctures on his flukes; jagged, bloody holes on his right hip; and his arm . . .

Starbuck glanced at it briefly and had to look away. What he saw caused his stomach to turn. His arm and hand were still attached to him, but that was the end of the good news. He couldn’t feel anything from his elbow down. His upper arm was mangled, as if someone had attacked him with a knife, slicing and slashing. He couldn’t see bone, but he felt ribbons of flesh bobbing loosely with the current and knew that it he was going to lose the limb if he didn’t get help soon.

Nausea, sour and strong, overwhelmed him. He felt dizzy and sick and exhausted. The dolphins may have saved him from the sharks, but they couldn’t save him from his wounds.

“I need help,” he murmured, not sure if he was talking to himself or his rescuers. They appeared to be listening to him intently, even if they didn’t understand him. “I have to get to land. Do you know a way? Can you help me?”

The dolphins were quiet for a few moments, then began to swim away in a chorus of clicks.

Starbuck watched them leave, his heart sinking. Of course they would be no help. How foolish of him to think that these animals could even—

The pod paused and looked back at him, chirping earnestly. Two of them broke away from the others and swam back to him, beginning to “talk” animatedly.

“You . . . are you telling me to follow you?” Starbuck asked, not quite believing that he was indeed communicating with these creatures. “I can try but I, I’m really hurt. I can’t move fast. I might lose you.”

The larger of the two dolphins swam around behind Starbuck and bumped his right arm, urging him to lift it. Starbuck did as he was bade and the dolphin’s body glided beneath his hand until it came to rest on its dorsal fin. Suddenly it all came together.

“You’ll help carry me? Is that what you mean? You want me to hang on to you?”

Starbuck didn’t understand the chatters that left the dolphin’s mouth, but it sounded like an affirmation to him.

This couldn’t really be happening, could it? It was too impossible. Utterly ludicrous. And yet . . .

_What choice do I have right now but to believe?_

“Alright,” said Starbuck, tightening his grip on his companion’s fin and pressing close to its body. “Alright, let’s go.”

The six dolphins up ahead turned and started to swim, and the two that remained at his side slowly followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience and the kind comments and kudos you all have left! You're the greatest!
> 
> Speaking of great, [wouldn't it have been great if Starbucky had been found by three magical seawitches as a baby instead of getting kidnapped by Hydra?](http://hjbender.tumblr.com/post/160142378904/benevolent-sea-witches-looking-after-a-baby) Yeah, I think so too. (But on the other hand, he probably wouldn't have met Steve and this story wouldn't exist, so I don't know. I just needed to draw something cute and cuddly while writing this angsty, bloody chapter. I'm sure most of you have already seen this, but just in case you haven't, here's your reward for sticking with me through Starbuck's rough journey.)


	11. The Strangest Day

Rumlow floated with his arms crossed, glowering at Zola as he swam back and forth across his laboratory, wringing his hands. The medisa was understandably distraught.

“You looked everywhere, correct?” he asked yet again. “Even the vents?”

“Four times, sir,” Rumlow grunted. “Nothing.”

“What about the refuse pods? The incinerators? Did you check those?”

“Thoroughly. There’s no trace of him anywhere.”

Zola grimaced and shook his plump fists back and forth. “Oh, this is terrible!” he wailed. “What am I going to tell Niuros? He’ll be furious with me! I _knew_ I should have locked up that troublesome Delfin sooner.”

Batroc, who was hovering beside Rumlow and grooming his claws with his teeth, suddenly perked up at the mention of Hydra’s leader. He exchanged a surprised look with his partner.

“There are other Delfins, Med Zola,” said Rumlow cautiously. “Ones who are more compliant. He can be replaced.”

Zola rolled his eyes. “If only the world were as simple as Carcarins think it is,” he scoffed. “No, my little winter soldier was _unique_ , the product of years of training and scientific research. He was hand-picked out of hundreds of infants to be the prototype of my—er, Niuros’s vision of the future. He cannot simply be replaced!”

A frown darkened Rumlow’s face. “What did you do to him?”

“That is classified information, soldier, though you probably would not understand even if I had permission to tell you.” Zola sighed heavily. “I suppose this leaves me no choice. Niuros must know, and I should be the one to tell him. He may kill me, but it’s a far better fate than if he were to find out I withheld this information from him.”

He turned to the two powerful Carcarins in his midst. “You will escort me to Base Alpha. Begin making the necessary preparations. We shall leave tonight.”

Rumlow drifted forward, alarmed. “But sir, we—”

Zola interrupted him with a wave of his hand. “I will have word sent to Commander Pierce informing him of your new mission. I’m sure he will have no problem with two of his best soldiers accompanying me to Hydra’s headquarters. Have you ever seen it, comoradi? If not, you are in for a treat. Perhaps you might even get to meet the Red Skull himself, wouldn’t that be grand?”

Batroc, who was trembling like an overexcited pup, now grinned with delight. “Yes, _sir_!”

Rumlow stared at his partner and was amazed at how absolutely disgusted he felt.

Zola adjusted the spectacles on his nose. “Well, it’s good to know that someone will be happy to see him. It certainly won’t be me. Very well then, you are dismissed.”

As they glided out of the laboratory, Batroc turned to Rumlow with a broad smile. “Did you hear that? Base Alpha! Niuros the Red Skull, our great leader! We are so lucky! Hail Hydra, I cannot wait!” He clenched his meaty fists and let out a satisfied snarl. His enthusiasm faded, however, when he saw the displeasure on his partner’s face. “What is the matter with you, Rumlow? Sand in your ass?”

“It’s a long way to Alpha,” Rumlow muttered. “And I hate that nasty little Siulen. I wanna bite his flippers off.”

“So do I, but that is just the Carcarin in us talking, brother.” Batroc threw his arm around Rumlow’s shoulder and leered at him. “Besides, I know the _real_ reason you are depressed: your little Delfin is gone. Am I right? Aha, yes, I can tell by the way you look at me. He was your pet, no? I am sorry for your loss, then. He was cute for a flat-fin, but far too willful. I like my mates submissive”—he chuckled darkly—“and larger, you know? Can you imagine how tight that little pup would be? My cock would split him in half if I could get it all the way in—”

Rumlow let out a roar and threw his forearm into Batroc’s throat, pinning the heavier Carcarin against the corridor wall. “If. You. _Ever_ ,” he hissed, “talk about him like that again, I will fill this ocean _with your blood_.”

Batroc’s eyes widened, though it was unclear whether it was in shock or fear.

Rumlow held him for another moment, quivering with rage, before backing off. He growled and swam away, fists clenched and fins knifing fiercely through the water. Batroc stared after his partner, rubbing his throat and wondering what in the seven seas had gotten into him.

* * *

Elsewhere in the ocean, far above the darkness of Base Psi, a pod of eight dolphins swam through the bright turquoise water. To the casual observer it would appear that they were simply enjoying a late afternoon romp through pleasant seas, but in truth they were on an urgent mission.

Two of their group followed the others at a slower pace, one in particular moving very carefully. He carried a badly-wounded passenger on his back, one that was leaving a thin trail of blood behind them. The unburdened dolphin approached from the side, studying the barely-conscious creature her companion bore.

 _The half-kin is dying_ , she said to him in the clipped, staccato language of her people. _Its head-images grow dark. Too much of the red life came out._

 _The land is close now_ , the male replied, rising above the water to briefly catch his breath. _It can survive._

The female gazed at Starbuck with her small black eye. _I saw a man in its head, and one of the big wooden whales. It is a human-friend._

 _It has the red mark_. _It hates humans. That is what the mark means._

_No. The man is its mate. Steve-Americus. They are already connected. There is a powerful bond between them._

_The half-kin is strange_.

 _We must take it to the humans_ , the female insisted, surging ahead. _They have gifts that will heal it. Shiny gray things that can put its flesh back together. I have seen them do this._

 _Humans use shiny gray things to take flesh apart_ , said the male. _That is how they eat._

_They will not eat the half-kin. Humans do not like damaged food. Come, we must make speed. It will be dead when the dark time comes._

_I cannot make speed. It will fall off. Peace, Cousin. Sing to it. Keep it awake, and it will not die._

The female slowed down and swam in tandem with her relative, beginning a song of soft whistles and clicks to keep the lethargic half-kin alert. Together they followed the rest of their pod through the clear blue sea, heading in the direction of an island very familiar to them in their travels.

The dolphins had their own name for it, but in the human tongue, it was known as Purawai.

* * *

Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Clint Barton, and Scott Lang stood around the base of the _Americus_ ’s main mast, watching Tony Stark scuttle down the rigging with the skill of a lifelong sailor. Quite unusual considering that Tony’s knowledge of ships and sailing could probably fit on the head of a pin; apparently he had been learning a thing or two about the subject. He was a man of eclectic and unconventional interests, after all.

He dropped to the deck with a smug grin, adjusted his tool belt, and raised his hand proudly. “Captain, your aerial is installed and your radiotelegraph is now operational.”

Scott leaned toward Clint and whispered, “What did he just say?”

Clint shrugged.

Tony sighed and turned his eyes skyward. “Sorry. I forget you fellas are still a century behind the rest of the world. Okay, _that_ ”—he pointed to the antenna at the top of the mast—“is the aerial. It acts like a . . . jeez, how the hell can I . . . It’s like a doorway, uh, no, more like a _window_ that allows two people to—no, wait, that’s a bad example. Um.” He floundered, gave up, and turned to Steve desperately. “ _You_ know how it works, Captain. Can you explain it to them? If I dumb it down any more my brain is gonna break.”

Steve crossed his arms and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, the antenna—”

“Aerial,” Tony corrected. After a glare from the captain, he held up his hands and let him have the floor. Or deck, in this case.

“The aerial antenna,” Steve began again, “is a magic wand that lets us send and pick up coded messages from other people who are far, far away. The machine we’ve got in the forecastle right now receives these coded messages and translates them into a language we can understand.”

There was a collective nod from the sailors and murmurs of “That makes sense” and “Okay, I see”. But Scott still seemed confused.

“Captain, um, if I may,” he said haltingly, “I understand about the ant thing, but I’m still iffy on the message part. If the code gets translated on the way in, what about on the way out? Does the machine translate that for us too?”

Steve shook his head. “No. One of the crew has to learn the code in order to send messages.”

“I nominate Gabe,” said Sam. “He’s good with languages, speaks several fluently. He’s more than capable.”

Steve nodded. “Alright, we have at least one contender. Tony, how long do you think it would take for someone to learn the code?”

“I’ve got a chart I can give you. You can pin it up in the forecastle as a guide until your operator has it memorized. Don’t worry, it’s easy to learn. Pretty soon he’ll be able to understand the code as he hears it coming in. You won’t even need the machine to translate it.”

“So the man makes the machine obsolete?” Steve grinned smugly. “And here I thought it was always the other way around. See, I don’t mind technology like that.”

“Dream on, Rogers. Uh, Captain, sir,” Tony added awkwardly, remembering that he was among military personnel where rank and respect were taken seriously. “Machines are here to stay, so learn to get along with them. They may save your life one day.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

A male voice suddenly called out from over the side of the ship: “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

Everyone moved to the starboard rail and looked over the edge. In a small skiff below, Stephen Strange and Helen Cho waved at them. Steve smiled and waved back. “Permission granted, Doctor. Climb on up!”

Strange, who had the least nautical experience of all present, was helped—wobbling and weaving—to the pilot ladder by Helen. He finally grasped the first step and climbed up unsteadily while Helen moored the boat to the ship. When Strange had nearly reached the top of the ladder, Steve crouched down at the gangway and grasped the doctor’s forearm, wholly lifting him up the last few steps and setting him on his feet.

“My God, you’re strong,” Strange remarked.

“ _Sir_ ,” hissed Tony.

“My sir, you’re strong.”

Tony clapped his palm to his face.

“Welcome aboard,” Steve said as Helen nimbly hopped up on deck.  “Glad you could finally join us. Tony was worried sick about you.”

“What! I was most certainly _not_! Stephen, where the hell were you? I was worried sick about you.”

“I walked Doctor Cho back to the inn,” Strange answered, seeming quite pleased by his partner’s agitation. “And before you say anything, yes, she invited me to her room and we spent the night sharing passionate medical notes and eating cheese and crackers.”

“It was _so_ stimulating,” Helen drawled. “He kept my brain engaged for hours.”

“She was insatiable. I could barely keep up with her. As soon as we finished one subject, she wanted to start another.”

“Needless to say, we were exhausted and slept half the day away. That’s why we’re only now getting here.”

“Cerebral intercourse is very tiring, you know.”

By this point everyone was smirking and snickering—everyone except Tony, who rolled his eyes and announced that there was nothing more excruciating than doctors attempting comedy, and that if they didn’t mind, he was going to go run some tests on “the radio” now, thank you.

“Wow, you were right, Stephen,” said Helen as Tony stalked away. “He really hates it when you make jokes.”

“It’s his ego,” Strange said, grinning. “He thinks he’s the only person in the world allowed to be witty. I take great pleasure in reminding him how wrong he is.”

“It’s a miracle you two haven’t killed each other yet,” Steve remarked.

Strange shrugged. “It’s the unstoppable force meeting the immovable object. We’re doomed to live forever in a state of combat, I’m afraid.”

Sam quietly cleared his throat, causing Steve to snap to attention. “Right, I’m sorry,” he said hastily, “where are my manners. Doctor Strange, allow me to introduce you to a few members of my crew: Lieutenant Sam Wilson, my first mate—”

Sam and Strange shook hands briefly and swapped the customary “pleased to meet you” and “how do you do”.

“And this is Clint Barton, my gunner, and Scott Lang, my—”

“Captain!” Tony shouted from across the deck.

“No, I’m the captain, Scott’s the carpent—”

“ _Captain, get your ass over here, sir, damn it, right now_!”

A wave of alarm swept through the small group, wiping the smiles from their faces. Steve bolted toward the sound of Tony’s voice and the others followed him, exchanging quizzical looks.

Tony was standing at the larboard bulwark, gripping the rail as he leaned over and stared at something down in the water. Steve slid to a halt beside him. “What is it, T—” he started, then lost the rest of his question as a cacophony of squeals and whistles reached his ears.

A pod of dolphins was gathered in the turquoise-blue water beside the ship, swimming upright with their heads above the surface, looking for all the world like a group of energetic Christmas carolers as they chirped and clacked and bobbed. It was an unusual sight, but hardly shocking.

What was shocking was the senseless man floating in the middle of their pod, a cloud of bright red blood blooming around him.

“Do you think he’s alive?” Tony asked, but Steve wasn’t listening. He was already ripping off his coat.

The rest of the crew appeared at the rail, uttering startled gasps and exclamations while their captain continued to strip off his clothes.

Helen and Strange simultaneously turned to look at each other. “Get in the boat,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “I’ll grab my bag from the infirmary.”

The two doctors raced away in opposite directions.

Steve, now wearing only his trousers, pulled himself over the rail and dove headfirst into the water. He disappeared with a huge splash as Tony, Clint, Scott and Sam watched anxiously from above. He resurfaced a moment later, just a few strokes from the pod. Two of the dolphins darted over to him, clicking incessantly, and flanked him as he plowed through the waves like a competitive swimmer. The rest of the pod drew back as he approached the wounded man.

“Hang on, fella,” said Steve, spitting seawater as he reached out to him. “Don’t worry, I’ve got y—”

He grasped the stranger’s shoulder and the body rolled toward him, revealing the face. Steve’s heart instantly turned to ice, every atom of his soul screaming in horror.

It was Starbuck.

“Oh God, no,” he uttered. “No, _no_ —”

He swept closer and carefully gathered the Delfin into his arms. His face was unnaturally pale, his breathing shallow and rapid. He appeared to be unconscious, or at least senseless. His body felt cold and limp . . . and mangled. The water was clear enough that Steve could see the gruesome state of his left arm as it leaked blood into the sea. He was no surgeon, but he had seen his fair share of trauma and tragedy on the high seas, and this looked like a mortal wound.

Steve fought down the panic that threatened to overpower him and pressed a spontaneous kiss to Starbuck’s cold, wet cheek. “Starbuck. Bucky, it’s me, it’s Steve,” he said softly. “It’s Captain Rogers. You remember me, don’t you? Can you hear me, Starbuck?”

“Is he alive?” called Tony.

“We need a surgeon!” Steve screamed, his voice cracking. “He’s hurt real bad!”

The dolphins had retreated under the water and were now swimming around the pair, chittering and chattering. Steve took no notice of their presence; he was focused only on one thing.

“Oh, Starbuck,” he said in a broken whisper, brushing the wet strands of brown hair from Starbuck’s forehead. Tears and saltwater burned in Steve’s eyes. “What happened to you? You’re all torn up. What did this?”

“Captain!”

Steve raised his head. From around the side of the _Americus_ , Helen and Strange appeared in the skiff. Strange was struggling at the oars while Helen pawed through her large black medical bag, selecting her instruments. “To the left, Stephen!” she barked over her shoulder. “We’re veering! Keep her steady!”

“This is _literally_ the first time I’ve ever done this!” he shouted back.

Unwilling to waste a single second in this critical situation, Steve hooked one arm around Starbuck’s neck and began to swim with the other, kicking his legs and propelling himself toward the skiff. He met it a few seconds later at the stern of the ship; Steve grasped the gunwale, his weight causing the boat to dip toward him.

“Strange, lift him up,” he instructed. “Helen, move to the other side, I’ll be there in a second to help counterbalance. You got him, Doc?”

“I got him,” Strange grunted, grasping the Delfin under his arms.

Steve relinquished his hold, sank into the water, and swam beneath the boat. He resurfaced on the other side and took hold of the gunwale with both hands, putting his weight on it. Beside him, Helen was leaning as far against the frame as she could. She was small and slight, but with Steve’s added weight they were able to finally balance the skiff.

“Damn!” groaned Strange, dragging Starbuck over the side. “How is he this heavy?”

Only when he collapsed against the forward thwart with his patient did he realize why.

By all appearances, the man was human from the waist up, but from the waist down, a grayish-blue tail—beautiful despite the sickening red bite marks on it—stretched all the way to the stern, glistening with water. The doctors, who now resembled two startled trout, stared at it with wide eyes and gaping mouths.

“Oh my—”

“—God, it’s a _Delfin_.”

“His name is Starbuck,” said Steve, treading water. “He’s the one we captured a few weeks ago.”

Helen turned and glared at him, her eyes filled with more fire than seven hells. “You mean you _beat him_ until he was almost dead and then just _tossed him into the ocean like this_?”

“No!” Steve sputtered as a wave broke on the side of his face. “No, I didn’t lay a finger on him! I mean, I _did_ , but it was to treat his injuries. I swear to you, Helen, he was fine when I let him go.” He swallowed roughly, his face softening along with his voice. “He’s dear to me. I would never hurt him. Believe me.”

The ferocious expression on Helen’s face faded when she saw the raw honesty in her captain’s eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “Why did you let me believe . . .”

“I told you that one day this would all make sense,” Steve said quietly. “Today seems to be that day.”

“This looks like a shark attack,” Strange muttered, examining Starbuck’s mutilated arm. “Multiple cuts and abrasions. Severe tissue damage, lacerated brachial artery. Stage three hypovolemia.” He and Helen shared a grim look with each other.

Steve appeared stricken. “What does that mean?”

Helen took a slow breath. “It means he’s lost a lot of blood and he’s going to need major surgery, possibly a transfusion. But we don’t have the instruments or a place to carry out a procedure of this complexity.” She brushed back the loose hair framing her face and held her head in her hands. “I can do the best with what I’ve got, but he’ll still be dead in a couple hours. We can’t even . . . we’re just not . . .”

A brief, profound silence fell over the skiff’s occupants. The dolphins, who had been swimming laps around the boat and clicking to one another, abruptly stopped—as if sensing the humans’ distress.

From the deck of the _Americus_ , Tony, Sam, Clint and Scott stared down at the scene unfolding before them. Not a word passed between them. They were simply too stunned to speak.

The somber moment was broken by Strange suddenly springing to his feet.

“The hell with”—the boat rocked and his arms shot out to steady himself—“hell with it! I took an oath to do no harm. I’ll be damned if I break it now.”

He pulled a large, gold-colored ring from his pocket—a double ring, actually, connected by a single metal rectangle—and slipped it on his left hand.

“Sit down, Stephen,” said Helen irritably, “you’re going to tip us into the—”

“Tony’s house,” Strange blurted. “It’s just across the bay. Take the patient there. I’m going to go get some supplies.” He held his left hand steady in front of him while his right began to trace a wide circle in the air. Orange sparks began to shoot and sizzle from its path.

Steve reached over the gunwale and laid a protective hand on Helen’s arm, ready to pull her away from whatever danger Strange was conjuring. “What the hell . . .”

A flaming, dazzling ring burst into existence at the skiff’s bow, pouring out yellow sparks as it spun and hissed. Helen jerked from Steve’s grip and threw herself down over Starbuck, shielding him from what she thought was real fire.

On the _Americus_ , Tony leaned over the rail and screamed, “ _Stephen_ , you blithering _ass_! Not in front of the _whole world_!”

Strange turned from the halo of sputtering light and smiled at Steve and Helen. “I’ll explain everything later. Just get to Tony’s. I’ll meet you there as soon as I have what I need.”

Steve started, “Wait, where are you—”

But Strange stepped off the boat and into the ring—as casually as one might step through a doorway—and promptly disappeared. Seconds later, the sparking circle shrank until it finally fizzled out of existence, leaving nothing but thin, empty air.

Helen slowly lifted her head. “What . . . just . . . happened.”

“I don’t know,” Steve answered truthfully, “and right now I don’t care. Grab Bucky and move over. I’m coming aboard.”

Helen hastily did as she was instructed and, when the skiff was somewhat balanced, Steve hauled himself over the gunwale, collapsing onto the boards in a soaking, streaming heap. He scrambled up and grasped an oar in each hand, working them into position. The first stroke sent Helen rolling to the stern with a yelp.

“Sorry!” Steve cried.

Helen dizzily pulled herself upright and took hold of the gunwales as if her life depended on it. The skiff, powered by Steve’s impressive strength, cut through the bay like a bullet, gaining momentum with each stroke. Helen’s gaze drifted down to the senseless Delfin lying in the bottom of the boat, then up at her captain, rowing madly to shore. She opened her mouth and spoke, but the wind snatched her words away.

“This is without a doubt,” she murmured, “the strangest day of my life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and kind comments! I hope you continue to enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it. HJB


	12. The Secret of SAINT

The front door of Tony’s house flew open with a bang. Steve, cradling Starbuck’s heavy, limp body in his arms, strode inside, followed closely by Helen.

“In here!”

Steve followed the sound of Strange’s voice and entered the kitchen, where Strange had been prepping the room for use as a makeshift operating theater. He was rolling up his sleeves, having already removed his cloak and extraneous, Eastern-looking accoutrements. Medical supplies and instruments, some bearing the mark of York General Hospital, were piled around the bare table in the center of the room. Helen gaped at it all.

“Stephen, how did . . .” she began, but lost the rest of her question. It didn’t really matter how he’d gotten the supplies—the important thing was that they were here. She darted to Steve’s side and helped him ease Starbuck onto the table. His long, livid tail hung limply over the edge.

“What’s his condition?” asked Strange, approaching them.

“Critical but stable,” said Helen as she quickly tied her hair back. “He appears to be unconscious.”

“I brought some anesthetics, but I don’t know how he might react to them. They could be fatal.”

“I agree, it’s not worth the risk. Looks like we’ll be doing this the old fashioned way.”

Strange flashed Helen a meek smile. “You mean _you_ will, Doctor. I haven’t picked up a scalpel in over a year.” He raised his shaking, unsteady hands in front of his face to illustrate precisely why. “I’ll assist you any way I can, but you are the chief surgeon now.”

The tension in the room was palpable, especially Helen’s. She stared down at Starbuck’s wounds for a moment, her mind rapidly working through each step of the entire procedure. “Alright. I need a saline irrigation, forceps, and scissors. Let’s get these wounds cleaned.”

As Strange began to gather the requested materials, Steve approached the table. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I’m glad you asked. Stephen, do you have your pocket watch on you?”

“Yes. You want it?”

“Give it to Captain Rogers. He’ll be monitoring the patient’s heart rate for us.” She turned back to Steve. “You remember how to do that, right? Just press two fingers to the carotid artery and count the beats for ten seconds—”

“Then multiply by six, got it.”

“Precisely. Stephen, please grab some dressings and another saline bottle while you’re over there. Captain Rogers can take care of the patient’s tail wounds while we work on his arm.”

“Aye-aye.”

Steve looked distinctly nervous. “Are you sure it’s alright for me to do that? I don’t know anything about—”

“You don’t have to,” said Helen as she poured the saline solution over the gaping rips in Starbuck’s arm. “It’s basic treatment, anyone can do it. Just flush the wounds thoroughly, remove any debris you find, then apply pressure. We’ll need to keep his—it’s Starbuck, right?—Starbuck’s tail elevated, so once you’ve got his pulse, try to find a bench or something we can use to extend the length of the operating table.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And Steve?”

“Yes?”

Helen gave him a sullen look. “If God owes you any miracles, now’s the time to call them in.”

Steve pressed his lips together grimly and nodded.

* * *

The surgery had been going on for nearly an hour when Tony, Sam, and Scott entered the house. They crept to the kitchen door and silently, solemnly watched the operation in progress. Aside from the click of surgical instruments and Helen’s steady voice delivering instructions to her assistants, it was almost completely silent. Starbuck lay on the table, pale and bloody and motionless but for the slight rise and fall of his chest. When Steve wasn’t checking his pulse or carrying out Helen’s orders, he held Starbuck’s right hand in his own and murmured soft reassurances to him.

“I thought that guy looked familiar,” said Tony after a few moments.

Sam’s eyebrows sprang up. “You mean you’ve seen him before?”

“Yeah. In Rogers’s sketchbook. I saw him drawing late last night, figured it was just another one of his”—he rolled his eyes and flipped his hand—“y’know, six hundred fantasy boyfriends or something. I dunno what’s more shocking, the fact that the guy’s real or that he’s a freakin fish.” He paused suddenly, quirking his eyebrow. “Actually, that makes perfect sense. Steve’s a total fishmonger. He’d fall in love with a plate of sushi. I dunno why I’m even surpri—”

“Oh my _God_.”

Slowly Tony and Sam turned to look at Scott, who had his hands raised to his open mouth and stars glimmering in his moist eyes.

“Captain Rogers is in love with a Delfin,” he whispered. “That is so _beautiful_. Like a fairy tale. It’s just . . .” He grinned brightly. “ _Wow_.”

Sam bowed his head and massaged the bridge of his nose while Tony stared at Scott like one would a strange new species of mushroom. The lighthearted moment was abruptly broken by the sharp sound of Helen’s voice.

“He’s waking up,” she announced. “Keep him calm, Captain. Talk to him, soothe him, anything, just don’t let him panic. Stephen, hold that shoulder down. I’m almost done repairing the brachialis but if he struggles he’ll tear the sutures.”

A dry, raspy groan rose from the table and Steve bent down, stroking the side of Starbuck’s face as his eyes fluttered open.

“Hey, Buck,” said Steve, trying to smile and doing a terrible job. “Remember me? Captain Rogers?”

“Steve?” The tiniest hint of happiness curled the corners of Starbuck’s mouth. “I must be dreaming. I thought I’d never see—” He grimaced suddenly and moaned.

Steve bent down and stroked his damp brown hair. “Shh, it’s alright. Everything’s gonna be fine, Bucky. The doctors are fixing your arm right now but you’re gonna have to be real still, okay?”

“It hurts,” Starbuck whimpered. He tried to look at his arm, but Steve’s hand gently touched his cheek and turned his head back around.

“You don’t need to see that right now. It’s bad but you’re gonna be alright, you’re in good hands. Just keep your eyes on my big dumb face, okay?”

Starbuck smiled, let out a ragged sob, and nodded.

Helen finished tying the second-to-last suture. “Sorry. I’m working as fast as I can.”

“Give him something to bite down on,” said Strange. “It’ll make the pain easier to bear.”

Steve immediately began to unbuckle his belt. He whipped it off, folded it in half, and held it to Starbuck’s lips. “Here. Whenever it hurts, just bite down as hard as you can.”

Starbuck opened his mouth and Steve put the belt between his teeth—and just in time, apparently. Helen’s curved needle penetrated his torn muscle, and he wailed behind the folds of leather. Strange pinned the Delfin’s shoulders to the table, but there were no hands left to restrain his flopping, banging tail—until Sam, Tony, and Scott rushed from the doorway to help. The three men grabbed hold and were barely able to maintain their grip.

“Keep him still!” Helen cried.

“Calm down, Bucky,” Steve pleaded, “they’re trying to help you, I know it hurts, just—”

There was a fleshy smack from the far side of the table, and Sam began to bray like a scalded hound. “Son of a bitch, that’s the _second_ time he’s done that! I’mma cut off those damn fins, boy, if it’s the last thing I—”

“You’re not helping, Wilson!” shouted Tony, desperately hugging Starbuck’s thrashing tail.

Incredibly, it was Scott Lang—who was currently using his entire upper body to pin down the Delfin’s tail—who came to the rescue. He began to sing, his voice a pleasant, soothing tenor: “ _Are you going to Scarborough Fair_? _Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme_ . . .”

Understanding exactly what Scott was doing, Steve and Sam switched tactics and joined in, their voices merging to create a strong but gentle trio: “ _Remember me to the one who lives there, for she once was a true love of mine_.”

Starbuck stopped struggling and became still, panting heavily around the belt in his mouth. His eyes were wide and confused, but completely focused on the strange new sounds he was hearing.

“ _Tell her to make me a shirt snowy-red_ ,” Helen sang as she worked, adding a high, sweet tone to the song. “ _Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme . ._.”

Even Strange and Tony, neither of whom were particularly good singers, found themselves singing along.

“ _With nary a seam, nor needle and thread, then she shall be a true love of mine_.”

It seemed to be working; Starbuck’s breathing grew steady and he ceased fighting against the men trying to help him. Steve hovered close and kissed his hand, stroked his forehead, checked his pulse. His eyes filled with torment every time Starbuck moaned and bit down on the belt.

Helen’s bloody hands worked quickly, and soon she secured the last suture in her patient’s muscle. Now she could focus on repairing his outer flesh wounds. While she quietly gave orders to Strange, Scott continued to lead his choir through all the verses of _Scarborough Fair_ , then _The Fish of the Sea_ , followed by _Farewell, Sweet Nancy_.

By the time they were starting on _Greensleeves_ , the light outside was dwindling; Tony gathered the lamps from every room and brought them into the kitchen, lighting them one by one. Starbuck had become lethargic again, not even cognizant of the pain anymore. His left arm, which a lesser doctor would have pronounced lost upon first examination, was slowly coming together again under Helen Cho’s skilled hands. Broken lines of black stitches covered Starbuck’s arm from shoulder to wrist, their tied ends sticking up like spindly insect legs. Helen wasn’t worried about them, though. She was more concerned about the Delfin’s blood supply.

“How’s he doing, Captain?” she asked.

“He seems alright,” said Steve, still barefoot and only half-dressed in his damp trousers. “His pulse is a little bit faster than it was earlier, but—”

“Is he asleep? Wake him up, keep him alert. We don’t want him to go unconscious again.”

“Why not? If he’s unconscious he can’t feel pain—”

“And he’ll be that much closer to death ,” she said. “Look at his lips. There’s no color. He’s not getting enough air because he’s lost too much blood. His heart is working overtime to keep his body oxygenated. He needs to stay awake.”

“I have transfusion equipment,” said Strange helpfully. “I’ll get it set up. We can start it when you’re done with the sutures.”

“With what donor, Stephen? This is a Delfin we’re dealing with. We don’t even know his blood type. If we give him human blood it may kill him—or at the very least damage his kidneys. If he even has kidneys. We know nothing about his physiology. The risk of rejection is too great.”

“Would you rather he exsanguinate, Doctor?”

“Of course not,” Helen snapped, her needle flashing as she closed the last of Starbuck’s wounds. “But if we give him blood and it kills him—”

“Then at least we _tried_.”

Helen shook her head, her brow creased with concern. “It’s reckless. No normal surgeon would attempt this.”

“We’re not normal surgeons, Helen. And this isn’t exactly a normal patient.”

“I know, but as medical professionals, we shouldn’t—”

“Give him _my_ blood.”

Strange and Helen turned to regard Steve. He was staring at them seriously.

“He won’t reject it,” said Steve, “I promise.”

Strange narrowed his eyes. “You seem pretty confident about that, Captain.”

“He’s confident because he’s right,” said Tony, slowly approaching the table with his arms crossed. He leveled his gaze at Strange, his eyes sharp and certain. “Trust me on this. Just do it.”

Helen and Strange exchanged a puzzled look with one another before Strange nodded his assent. “Alright. I’ll get everything ready.”

* * *

He knew he was on land before he was even fully awake. The heavy, weighted feeling of his body was his first clue, the lightness in his lungs the second. Starbuck stirred, his eyes fluttering open.

He was lying in a human nest, propped up by several dry, fluffy sponges. It was dark, the room lit by a single fire-shell. He shifted, groaning softly in his throat. For probably the first time in his life he was fully aware of every part of his body, only because every part of his body hurt in some way. His left arm was stretched out beside him, stippled with black sutures and bound in a temporary splint. It felt painfully swollen and sore, stinging on the outside, aching on the inside. He turned to look at it and was alarmed to find a long, slender creature with its needle-like nose buried in the soft flesh of his inner arm. He uttered a cry and tried to pull away from it.

“Don’t move,” said a warm, familiar voice beside him. “Everything’s alright, Buck.”

Starbuck turned his head a little farther and found himself face-to-face with Steve, who was sitting in a chair at the head of the bed. He looked terribly weary, but the smile that came to his face was as bright and hopeful as the morning sun breaking through the clouds after a stormy night at sea.

In that moment, Starbuck forgot everything—his pain, his confusion, the strange thing in his arm, the torment and anguish he had endured for the last two days—and rolled over, throwing his right arm around Steve’s neck and pulling him close.

“I didn’t think I would ever see you again,” he whispered, pressing his cheek to Steve’s and nuzzling him with his nose, relishing his smell and touch.

“Me neither,” Steve answered. He reached up and combed his fingers through Starbuck’s soft brown hair, tears pricking his eyes. “But now we’re together again. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

Starbuck rested his forehead against Steve’s and stroked the captain’s stubbly, unshaven jaw. “I should never have left you. I never wanna leave you again.” He closed his eyes. “Keep me, Steve Rogers. Please say you’ll keep me forever. I’m yours.”

Heat flooded Steve’s face as his heart pounded in his chest. He pursed his lips and kissed the smooth, salty skin just below Starbuck’s eye. “Whatever you want, darling,” he murmured. “I am your servant. My heart belongs to you.”

Starbuck smiled, his tail curling with happiness.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” said a new voice.

Startled, Steve and Starbuck turned their heads to see Helen Cho standing in the bedroom doorway. She had changed out of her bloodstained clothes into something more casual, and was doing her best not to grin at the scene before her. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but you’re fouling the line, Captain.”

Starbuck clung tightly to Steve, staring at the stranger.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Steve kindly. “That’s Doctor Helen Cho, our ship’s surgeon. She’s the one who fixed your arm.”

“Pleased to meet you, Starbuck,” said Helen, smiling as she stepped into the room and gave a polite nod of her head to the Delfin.

“She . . . ?” Starbuck looked perplexed. “What’s . . . I don’t. Y-you’re a medisa?”

Helen glanced at Steve. “Medisa?”

“I believe that’s what the Marmeni call their doctors.”

“Oh. Then yes, Starbuck, I am a medisa. Maybe someday you can tell me about the methods _your_ people use to treat wounds, yes?”

Starbuck nodded uncertainly, still latched to Steve like a barnacle.

“Well,” said Helen, clasping her hands together, “as much as I hate to break up this happy reunion, you gentlemen are squashing the transfusion tube. May I?”

The two reluctantly drew apart as Helen reached between them and untangled the thin rubber hose that stretched from Steve’s right arm to Starbuck’s left; at the hose’s midpoint was a small balloon and some sort of gauge, and Helen checked it before apparently deeming it satisfactory.

“Alright, no harm done. You’ll need to lie back down though, Starbuck, keep pressure off your arm. That’s it.” Her grin widened to giddy proportions as her eyes swept over the Delfin from head to tail. Steve had never seen her this excited before. “You’re recovering amazingly. I can hardly believe it. Just an hour ago you were white as a sheet—now your color’s back and you’re awake and alert. It’s nothing short of miraculous.” She turned to Steve. “Good work, Captain. Those prayers must have helped.”

“No need to thank me. I didn’t do anything.”

“Right.” Helen gestured to Steve’s arm, where the donor needle was embedded and held in place by a strip of cloth. “Because giving three pints of blood is apparently nothing these days. I don’t understand how you’re still conscious. You should at least be feeling dizzy. And the fact that your blood actually seems to be compatible with Starbuck’s . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It’s a medical anomaly.”

The expression on Steve’s face became suddenly solemn. “Could you shut the door, Helen? There’s something I need to tell you.”

Starbuck glanced between the two humans worriedly as Helen quietly got up and closed the door, then sat down on the edge of the bed. She folded her hands in her lap and waited, her eyebrows drawn tightly together.

“I wasn’t always the big, strong man you see here today,” Steve began. “Most of my life I was short, skinny, and sickly. Couldn’t participate in school sports, got pneumonia every autumn, could barely carry my books to class. I tried to make up for my physical shortcomings by studying hard, and I was accepted into York Naval Academy when I was sixteen, two years younger than the average student. It was like a dream come true . . .”

He went on, telling Helen and Starbuck about his joy at receiving his acceptance letter, how proud his mother (God rest her soul) had been, and how he had wanted to be a sailor all his life, to join the navy and fight Hydra on the open seas. All the other boys were signing up to fight, but Steve kept getting rejected on account of his poor medical record. He decided to go the academic route and become an officer, hoping that as he grew older he would also grow stronger.

It didn’t happen. The thin, frail little boy grew into a thin, frail young man who received good marks in his studies but always fell short on his physical training. He failed several courses of basic seamanship, such as rowing, ropework, steering, and sailing. His deficiency was not in knowledge, but in what his body could accomplish. He was very smart and courageous, would have made an excellent captain—“would” being the operative word; his professors and instructors admired his heart and enthusiasm, but lamented his fragile, feeble physique. He would be lucky to end up as a cabin boy, they told him frankly.

“Then,” said Steve, “during my third year, a man named Bram Erskine came to the academy.”

“Erskine?” Helen echoed. “You mean Doctor _Abraham_ Erskine, the man who made first contact with the Delfi?”

“One and the same,” said Steve. “He was with the Strategic Scientific Reserve, a special division of SAINT. He came to York Naval Academy to find candidates for this new program the SSR was trying. They called it Project Rebirth. Highly classified, only one person would be accepted, the best of the best. Everyone wanted to be that person.”

“And that person was you,” said Starbuck. He sounded quite pleased.

Steve chuckled. “After a couple near-death experiences, but yeah, I was accepted. I don’t know why they picked me. I guess there was something about me they liked.”

“I like everything about you.”

Steve blushed bright pink and smiled while Helen hid her smirk behind her hand.

“Well, uh, to shorten the story a little,” he continued, stuttering bashfully, “Doctor Erskine had developed a serum that could turn a shrimpy guy like I used to be into . . . well, what you see here.”

Helen appeared dubious. “But that’s—you’re talking about complete biological enhancement. Molecular reconstruction. Genetic reprogramming. Those fields have only been around for a few years.”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t know all the details, or how Erskine did it. All I know is that they gave the serum to me, and it turned me into this.” He gestured broadly to himself.

“But why?” Starbuck’s voice was small. “Why did they want to change you?”

Steve had to resist the urge to reach out and smooth the concern from Starbuck’s face. “Because,” he said gently, “they were trying to create a type of soldier—a super soldier, they called it—who could fight Hydra on their own turf. A soldier who could breathe water and withstand huge amounts of underwater pressure. Someone strong enough to overcome fluid dynamics.”

Both Starbuck and Helen stared, unable to believe what they were hearing.

“There were supposed to be three treatments,” Steve continued. “I received two, then the facility was destroyed in an explosion before they could give me the third and final shot. Doctor Erskine and Duke Howard Stark were killed in the blast, and all their research was lost. To this day no one knows what caused the explosion. It went down in the books as an industrial accident.” He sighed heavily. “All that knowledge and science, just to turn me into a good swimmer.”

Helen was still frowning. “But that doesn’t . . . How did Erskine . . . ? Forgive me if I sound skeptical, Captain, but there’s no way Doctor Erskine could simply turn a human into a Marmen. It’s fantasy.”

“I would have thought the same,” Steve agreed, “if it weren’t for the Delfin.”

“ _What_?” came the combined voices of his stunned audience.

“The Delfin,” Steve repeated. “I don’t remember his name, but he was a friend of Doctor Erskine’s—he might have even been the first Delfin he met—but he agreed to help SAINT develop the supersoldier serum. They used the Delfin’s blood, something in it called DRA? DRN? I forget what Erskine called it, but he was really excited about it.”

Helen’s face had gone slack with shock. “Oh my God. He used Delfin DNA to . . .”

“That’s it! DNA. You’ve heard of it?”

“Vaguely. It’s just been discovered. It’s . . . we don’t even really know what it does yet.” She gazed at Starbuck, then at Steve. “But Erskine obviously did. And that’s why your blood is compatible with Starbuck’s. Because they were trying to create a Delfin-human hybrid. Which means you’re—”

“Part Delfin, yeah,” Steve finished. He looked slightly self-conscious. “Sixty percent I think was what they told me. The final treatment would’ve made me at least ninety percent, similar to Delfins in every way except appearance.” His gaze fell to the floor. “All that effort, and I’m still just an ordinary man.”

Silence fell. Starbuck stretched his uninjured arm toward Steve, who looked up and gently grasped the offered hand, stroking its smooth, gray-blue back with his thumb.

“You may not be a supersoldier,” said Starbuck, blinking his sad blue eyes, “or even a Delfin, but you’re the closest thing to my own people I’ve ever met.”

Steve’s face flushed red again, but this time it was because of tears. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

“It’s alright.” Starbuck smiled. “It’s not your fault.”

Steve bravely tried to return the smile and somehow made himself look even sadder.

Helen sighed and tiredly raked a hand through her hair.

Outside, the windows of the little house on Purawai glowed gold in the starry blue night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Scene:
> 
> On board the _Americus_ , Clint Barton—the lone watchman of the shift while the rest of the crew were ashore—sighed and gazed forlornly up at the night sky. 
> 
> “Man,” he muttered, “I feel like I’m missing out on all the fun.”


End file.
